Trunk Space
by CalamityJim
Summary: When a conspiracy targets Sam Singer, Dean Winchester shows up in the nick of time. But the bad guys are still out there, ghosts aren't taking a break, and Sam is completely unwilling to admit that he might be less than straight. Slash. Hiatus.
1. Past is Prologue

**Disclaimer-**Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and affiliates, not me.

**Warnings-**Violence, Slash, Bad Language. No Wincest. The boys ain't bros in this.

**AN-** This story is unfinished. I've got it about half done, but then got stuck, so I decided to start posting it to see if anything rattles loose. I figure if it doesn't then I will just re-watch the boxsets. Life's busy, so I will be posting irregularly. Much love to my beta, who has made this story better. Hope you enjoy and if you have any criticisms or comments I'd love to hear them. Every review is a chance for me to learn more. Flames will be used to make smores. Hope you all enjoy.

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**Trunk Space**

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The block was silent save for the soft rustle of the leaves in the slight breeze. Light from the lampposts a block over trickled into the street, and joined the flickers from the sleepy houses to chase off the darkness. The neighborhood appeared to settle down for an easy sleep as, one by one, lights were extinguished by tired occupants.

In one house a family gathered around the second floor nursery and guided the newest member of the family into an easy sleep with soft whispers of love and affection. The eldest son forced his parents to lift him so he could kiss his new baby brother to sleep before allowing his father to carrying him off to his own bed. The young mother smiled as she watched her boys, her husband's hands flying animatedly as he illustrated the story that the oldest had pressured him into reading before allowing sleep to claim him. She shook her head and made her way to her own room knowing that the boy would manage to get at least one more story out of his father.

x—x-x—x

She opened her eyes and tried to place the noise that had woken her from a light sleep. Her hand immediately reached under her pillow for something that hadn't been there in nearly a decade. A soft hum coming from her left that clued her in and she sighed, slumping down into her bed. She loved her son, she truly did, but she was looking forward to the day when he could finally sleep through the night so she could too.

"Honey?" She rolled over, determined to make her husband go check on the child and sighed when she saw his side of the bed was empty.

She wandered towards the nursery, rubbing her eyes as she walked down the softly lit hall. The light began to flicker, casting dancing shadows across her. The artificial twilight caught her white nightgown and for a few seconds she looked like an angel floating across the hall.

She peered into her baby's room and smiled tiredly, seeing a familiar silhouette already looking after the baby. "Is he all right?" Her voice slid through the gloom with the shadows.

"Shhhh," he whispered, raising his finger to his lips.

She shook her head, turning down the hallway. If he was going to be like that then maybe he should have woken her, she thought grumpily as she trudged down the stairs. As soft lights flickered across the wall she realized he had left the television on when he went to go check on the baby. She rolled her eyes and touched the final step, already mapping out a route to shut off the television.

Her husband was asleep on the couch.

She took the stairs three at a time. She threw herself in to the nursery and went to rush the stranger, ready to do everything to keep her family safe.

An invisible force began slammed her into the wall. She screamed in rage.

Then slowly, oh so slowly, she began to slide up it.

x—x-x—x

He woke to the sound of screaming. It took him several precious seconds to realize that it wasn't the golfers on the screen who had made that noise. The realization sent the half eaten bowl of cheetohs flying to the new carpet, dusty orange staining the white.

None of that mattered to the man flying up the stairs.

He checked on his oldest first. The kid was buried under a heap of blankets, a lone foot sticking out. Despite his panic the father had made sure to open the door both as quickly and as quietly as possible. Despite the silence of his father's entrance the boy still opened a groggy eye.

"Da?"

"It's okay," his father's deep voice rumbled, "go back to sleep."

"'Kay," the sound was like a sigh as the boy's body instantly relaxed back into the bed.

Next the father headed to the nursery, moving slower as his panic abated. It disappeared completely as he pushed open the door to see his youngest kicking his feet and cooing softly. The child smiled as his father approached, but his intelligent eyes soon darted back to the ceiling. The child cooed again while his father watched with a tender expression.

It wasn't until something dark dripped onto the blanket that he turned to see what had made his youngest so happy. He lifted his gaze towards the heavens and his eyes met those of his wife. She lay pinned to the ceiling, her hair flared out like a halo as her stomach wept crimson. Silence filled his mind as time stretched out impossibly wrong.

"Daddy?" A small voice from a child who hadn't gone back to sleep cracked through the night. Then the fire broke out.

The man turned to his oldest son. "Run!" he screamed at the boy.

So the child did. He fled, running down stairs that he was only supposed to walk down and onto the lawn in bare feet, feeling damp grass between his toes. He looked up at the orange glow coming from the room where he had left his family.

Dean shot up, clawing his way out of the nightmare and back into the safety of daylight. Well, the _supposed_ safety of daylight, he thought with a bit back moan as light stabbed into his through his eyes directly into his brain. The young man fell back onto the bed, his pillow squeezing against his pounding head. He let out a soft moan as he rolled onto his side, his stomach swimming in the opposite direction.

A soft chuckle echoed like thunder rattling in his skull. Dean Winchester silently cursed the world and Jack Daniels, both the man and the beverage.

"Worth it?" John Winchester's deep rumble made Dean wince but even that pain couldn't keep the smile off of his face as he remembered the previous night.

"Yeah." Dean grinned lewdly. She had been a leggy red head, which normally would have made for a great night, but this chick had been yoga instructor. She had been able to do things with her body that Dean hadn't known were possible. Yoga instructors had definitely made their way onto his list of the best ways to spend the night. Hell, they might have even passed pent up librarians.

"Good." John nodded in approval as he watched the hung-over form of his son crawl his way towards the bathroom. Not that he approved of getting shit-faced and going for a tumble with the most convenient bimbo. It made a hunter vulnerable to be out of it like that. It's hard to watch your back if you can't even see straight and are stupid to end up in the sack with a stranger. Yet John had come to accept this behavior from Dean back when the boy was just a teenager. It had been hard to realize that they both had a different way of coping with the job. Dean had managed to find one that was stupid, but he supposed it was still better than what it could have been.

At least it worked. He knew that Dean would be fresh on his feet for few weeks or until the next hunt went bad, which ever came first. And consider how much of a dozy the last hunt had been he was glad Dean seemed as languid as he did. They had gotten the prick but for Dean it hadn't been enough.

The thing had been a div, a type of witch that fed off of the flesh of children. It had operated from a house nestled deep in the woods of the Tahoe but just close enough to a campground to keep it well fed. Children had been going missing in the area for over fifty years and people had kept placing the blame on the increasing number of cougars in the state. John had figured out it was more then that when a Boy Scout troupe had gone missing and the instructor had been found by hikers with his neck twisted. He and Dean had tracked the thing down and killed the sucker, which had been damn hard to do. They had been required to drown the fucking thing. Watching its abominable flesh melt into the water had been enough for John, but not for Dean. Something in the boy had crumpled when the search for survivors turned up a single bloody sneaker.

"So." Dean's voice floated from the bathroom, breaking into his thoughts. "You have a new job for us yet?" He emerged with a towel, drying his face. He still looked pale but he had obviously taken something for the pain.

"Nah." John set his gun on the table. "I got a call while you were out." He was torn between rolling his eyes and chuckling as Dean once again relived the memory of the previous evening, "And he had some info he needed to pass onto me. In person."

Dean straightened at that, his cocky demeanor vanishing. "The thing that killed…?"

John shook his head. He loved Dean, the boy was his son, but there was a part of Dean that didn't yet have what it took to see this job through to the end. Despite being twenty-four there was a part of him that wasn't old enough to know what John had been hunting all these years. "No. It's separate and it's personal. I'm going alone. I'll call you when I'm done."

"Yes sir." Dean wilted and John realized Dean knew the score. He knew that his dad would be incommunicado for the next few weeks.

John leaned back in his chair. Dean's mouth may have been saying yes but the boy's body was definitely unhappy with the decision. Then again, Dean was always pissed when John left him alone. Kid had dependency issues of some sort he needed to work through. Which wasn't really John's problem.

John frowned. Part of him felt bad, so he threw Dean a bone. "Why don't you go see Pastor Jim? He's always got a case floating around and I'm sure he'd be glad to have you clean something up for him."

"Yes sir!" Dean went even straighter and John congratulated himself on knowing how to handle his son. Jim would keep the kid busy and make sure he didn't go in over his head while John dealt with his business.

x—x-x—x

"Boy! Get your keister down here!"

"Coming Bobby!"

"Don't you 'coming Bobby' me! Get your ass to the kitchen now!" The tone left no room for argument.

Sam sighed as he saved the file, looking mournfully at the old text. He been trying all week to type the thing up and he hoped to email Ash a copy before the month was out. He sighed again as he flipped his laptop closed. By Bobby's tone it was unlikely that Sam would have a chance to chip away at the job tonight.

Bobby waited as patiently as he could for Sam to come downstairs. For being 6 " 4' the kid could sure dawdle when he chose and he damn well knew the boy was choosing to now. Not that he could blame the kid. Dealing with Bobby while he was pissed was something no one really ever wanted to do. Last guy who had gotten Bobby in this much of a twist had found his face full of shotgun.

"So, what's up?" Sam leaned against the doorframe, hands stuffed into his pockets, going for casual. He would have made it too if Bobby didn't know the kid so well. The boy was wound up tighter than a spring and ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble, though he'd probably trip with the way that Rumsfeld had wrapped himself around the kid's knee.

_Traitor_, Bobby glared at the dog. The dog huffed in response and then, in the ultimate display of contempt, began to lick himself. The damn mutt seemed to have conveniently forgotten whose hands it were that fed him. Rumsfeld was heading the right way for vegetable kibble and an attitude adjustment.

"Bobby?" Sam hesitantly peeked out from underneath his shaggy bangs, breaking the silent war between the man and his dog. He winced, realizing his mistake when Bobby shifted his piercing blue eyes towards Sam.

"When the Hell were you gonna tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Sam bowed his head, trying to make himself a smaller target. He had no idea what Bobby was talking about.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Samuel." Sam winced at the use of his full name, knowing he was screwed. The feeling only worsened when Bobby held up an envelope addressed to one Samuel Singer. The return address read Stanford University, California.

_Oh_, Sam thought dumbly as panic began to numb his brain. "Look Bobby, I can explain-"

"Explain what?" Bobby snapped. "That you were planning on going on an all expenses paid trip to California?"

"No, I- wait, what?" It was then that Sam noticed that the corners of the envelope were torn.

"That's right," Bobby puffed out his chest, offering Sam the envelope. He grinned as the kid fished out the letter, his expressive eyes filling with shock as they skimmed through its contents. When he was finished he looked up at Bobby, who openly smirked. "Congrats on being the first Singer destined for better things."

"You're not pissed?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Bobby huffed. "Course I'm pissed, boy. That thing there says they need your ass in Cali in three months. Do you know how hard its gonna be to track down and gather the crew in that time?"

"Gather the crew?"

"Hell yeah. We got a lot of celebrating to do and I'll be damned if you get out of here without a party."

"Party?"

"There a damn echo in here or something?" Bobby clapped a hand on a dazed Sam's shoulder. "Now why the Hell didn't you tell me this sooner?"

Sam blinked and looked down at the letter again. "I didn't think I'd get the scholarship."

"What the Hell has that got to do with anything? You know that I would have rustled up some cash so you could go."

Sam shook his head. "That's why, Bobby. You've already done so much for me and I didn't want to cause you any more trouble." Sam looked at Bobby with imploring eyes, begging for understanding.

And Bobby did understand. He understood that Sam was too damn guilty for his own good if he thought that he had ever caused Bobby a lick of trouble. He'd tried explaining that to the kid, but it seemed as though Sam would really have to learn that lesson on his own. So Bobby tousled Sam's hair. "Well, you got your scholarship, so go clean up. We've got some celebrating to do."

Sam flashed a smile, an honest one that made his dimples standout before vanishing back up the stairs.

From his spot on the floor Rumsfeld whined, rolling onto his back. Bobby glared at the dog, cursing the animal even as he bent over to give his belly a good scratch.


	2. Smoke and Echoes

AN-Here's chapter two. I just wanted to peruse it one more time before sharing. Hope you enjoy and once again, please review?

Dean drummed his hands against the steering wheel as music thrummed through the vehicle. His mind was a million miles away from the Def Leppard pouring from the stereo. He had spent a month at Pastor Jim's, working every single salt-and-burn the man had thrown at him. They had gone smoothly enough, Dean coming back with only a few bruises now and then, but the simple hunts hadn't been enough to stave of the twitchiness that came with being in one place far too long.

Dean had called his dad, left a message letting the man know he was moving on and then he was gone. He had stuck in the state for as long as jobs allowed, but pretty soon he was prowling the country again. The jobs helped fight off the ever-increasing worry about his father. Yeah, the man wasn't answering his phone, which was normal for him, but the longest he had ever gone incommunicado was a month and a half. Even then Dean had been able to get updates through Jim, who at the moment was just as clueless as Dean.

So Dean hunted jobs and hunted for his father, which was what brought him to Black Forest, Colorado.

Back in the nineties a serial murderer had swept through town, taking out a teenager before leaving. A few years later an abandoned place on the edge of town became a local teen hazing ground. That had been all well and good, with bumping lamps and flickering lights, but in recent years things had began to escalate. The place went from a benign haunting to a malevolent one and though no one had been killed it had become a matter of "when" instead of "if ever."

Dean had grabbed a room at a local motel and began to dig. The girl's spirit seemed to be at rest, made doubly sure by a salt-and-burn for caution's sake. This made locating the actual culprit a Hell of a lot harder. He had done the paper wading, found out the killer was alive but incarcerated and had been left with a bit of a puzzle. Spirits rarely changed their MO without reason and no one was going to be tearing down the house anytime soon. The escalation was bothering Dean because it was his biggest clue. A phone call to Caleb had Dean feeling like an idiot, but at least he was an idiot with a solution. He had dealt with poltergeists before.

By the time he pulled up to the abandoned shack he was feeling pretty good. He had his funky bags full of hoodoo or voodoo or whatever doo would cause the thing to split and he had seen a seedy looking bar close to his motel. As soon as he cleansed the house he could part a few suckers from their cash and treat a fine lady to a night of the Dean Special. All in all it was lining up to be a great evening.

Dean hopped out of the Impala, his sawed off swung casually over his shoulder. He grinned when he stared at the house. Total cakewalk.

Then he sniffed the air, a familiar and acrid smell filling his nostrils. "What the Hell?" Dean mumbled to himself, his eyes darting in the darkness. His brows creased as he noticed a flicker coming from the old barn on the property. He drew the gun, slowly gliding silently towards the old building. Carefully he placed his back against one door, flicking the other open with his free hand.

"Crap."

Smoke and heat poured through the door, causing Dean to hack as it blasted him. With watery eyes he managed to take in the scene before him and it totally ruined his good vibe for the day.

Some idiot had parked their vehicle in the barn and had somehow decided that torching it was a great idea. The car looked pretty new, if the model was anything to go by, but Dean could sympathize with wanting to be rid of it. The Echo didn't exactly scream 'cool' but selling the thing still would have been a better plan. And better yet, it wouldn't have interfered with Dean's plans. Dean didn't have anything to fight this fire with and he had a poltergeist to deal with, except now he had to move faster than the fire department. Great. Just great.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned to leave when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He stared at the car, trying to look through the flames instead of at them. Movement flickered again.

"Holy shit!"

x—x-x—x

His arms vibrated as the weapon in his hands exploded into action.

Sam swore that no matter how many times he heard it that he would never get used to the sound of a shotgun firing. On the other hand, wincing at the sound didn't stop the rock salt from barraging into the angry spirit, sending its incorporeal form scattering in all directions.

Sam slammed the butt of his gun into the wall, enlarging the dent he had already put in the plaster, but the wall didn't give. With a plea Sam rammed the wall again, this time rewarded with give. He dropped to his knees and began fishing out debris with fingers, trying to enlarge the hole enough to stuff the charm bag into it.

Of course, his new friend wasn't happy with that plan.

"Crap!" Sam yelped as a table tipped over and whipped towards him. He rolled, trying to get out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough. The table slammed his leg into the wall, his foot impacting at an odd angel. Sam grunted as his brain began to catalogue the injury while his body ignored it, numbed by the adrenaline pumping through his system. He pulled his leg out, growling with the effort, and gave the table a solid kick. The old wood splintered at the impact.

Sam clumsily rose to his knees, determined to stuff the charm bag into the wall. The temperature of the room dropped. There was no time to enlarge the gap. Sam could already hear the shifting of furniture behind him. He fished the charm bag from his pocket and with a yell slammed his fist into the breach in the wall.

The effect was instantaneous. A ripple of energy moved through Sam, through the house, and somewhere way too close him the poltergeist hissed as its energy dissipated.

Sam fell back, letting his bruised body relax on the floor. He let out a little bit of a laugh, not sure if he wanted to hug Bobby or feed the man to Rumsfeld. One last job, the man had said, one to tide him over while he was gone, or give him a steady reminder of why college was even in the picture. As he moved to stand Sam decided that the job was definitely fit the last category. Poltergeists were always nasty suckers and this one had had a clever streak to boot.

As Sam stretched his arms he knew he was going to be sore in the morning. There was no way he'd manage the twelve-hour ride to Bobby's in a single trip. He could swing by the Roadhouse; spend the night there. The real question was should he leave now, arrive sometime in the morning, or check into a motel for the night.

Sam slid into the front seat with a hiss. He was definitely going to a motel. He pulled his head back, leaving it against the headrest as he allowed the pain from tangling with the poltergeist wash through him.

Then he flew into darkness.

x—x-x—x

"Whaa?" Sam slurred himself to wakefulness and pushed his body up. His face parted from the steering wheel with a sticky tug. He frowned down at the dark stain, his aching mind running it through a list of substances before it settled on one.

Blood. Maybe from a head injury? Sam moved to touch his face, to explore for damage, but his hands wouldn't respond. He glared at them before he noticed the actual problem. His wrists were taped to either edge of his steering wheel.

"Hell boy."

Sam jumped at the velvety voice.

"It would have been better if you had stayed asleep."

Sam jerked back, trying to focus on the face of his attacker, but the blood and the dizziness only allowed his to catch bright teeth against dark skin. They didn't stop him from clearly feeling the hand gently cup his face or hear the skittering sound of pellets hitting his jacket. "Wh't 're you doing?"

The velvety voice chuckled. "Come on, Sam. I heard you were quicker than this. I'm sure your daddy would be sad to hear you can't recognize a salt and burn."

The words penetrated the thick fog like the noon sun. Sam blinked, truly taking in his predicament for the first time. His attacker stood with the driver's door open, holding Sam's head as he continued to dump salt on him. Behind the man was a wall, which meant they were in a building. An angry growl from outside meant that the man had a truck, so Sam's car had been moved and stashed somewhere, meaning he could be anywhere. Above the smell of stale air something sweet and heavy was beginning to fill the air. As his assailant dropped his head Sam allowed it to roll, noticing the streams pouring down his windshield as a second person dumped a liquid all over his car. _Diesel. _

Sam couldn't help the whimper that escaped his lips.

"Now Sam," the velvety voice purred beside his ears, "There's no need for that. Seems to me as though we're doing you a favor. We could have stowed you somewhere where no one would ever find your remains. This way you'll at least be found. Well," the voice paused in consideration, "enough of you, anyway. Course it will take a few days.

"See, this barn here's been abandoned for a while now and, well, if those damn neighborhood kids didn't keep playing in here, despite how dangerous it is. A building like this, the fire department will let burn down. They'll find your car when they start clearing away the rubble, call your folks and let them know that you did something stupid.

"So everybody wins. Me and my buddy here, we get our job done while you get to help prevent a couple of kids from breaking their necks. Everybody goes home happy."

"Please," Sam whispered, twisting his head so he could beg with his eyes. "Please."

"None of that now, Sam." The voice turned stern. "You've known this was coming for a while now. Your momma burned to death and you've always known it was your fault. This is justice, Sam, and a might poetic at that. It has to be this way."

Sam tried to protest, tried to argue, but his mouth and his brain couldn't seem to muster more than a token protest. "No." It came out as more of a whimper.

The dark man sighed, as though annoyed that Sam wasn't agreeing to his plan. But instead of another lecture he just shut the door, trapping Sam alone in a vehicle that had been made into a death trap. Sam could only watch through the window as the man set a small pile of cloth and straw on fire and ducked out of the barn. The hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood up as he caught a glimpse of the man in the review mirror. A grotesque parody of a smile was etched on his shadowed face. His pearly tooth stood out like snowflakes on soot before the man finally turned away, leaving Sam to his fate.

As soon as the man was out of sight Sam began to thrash for all he was worth, pulling as hard as he could against the tape. Adrenaline and fear tore through his mind and created a buffer against the pain. He twisted, leaning forward and back as he worked at his bonds, the corner of his eye watching as the flames began to spread.

When the fuel on his car caught he was no closer to freeing himself then he had been when he woke up.

x—x-x—x

Dean rushed to the vehicle in the barn, poltergeist be damned.

He stripped off his jacket as he dashed over to the vehicle and the struggling figure inside, wrapping it around his hand as he reached for the door handle through the flames.

"Shit!" he screamed, cursing as flames licked his jacket while the door remained closed. Car locks were making their way onto the list of the banes of Dean's existence.

He lifted an elbow, smashing through the driver's window and popped the lock from the inside, throwing the door open.

"Come on!" he yelled at the occupant of the vehicle, discarding his burning jacket and trying to pull them out, before he noticed the tape. He swore again, pulling a silver knife from his boot and recklessly sliced through the bindings. Then he heaved.

The guy slid free and hit the ground. Dean cursed again and slipped an arm under the dude's shoulder, thanking his lifestyle when he was actually able to haul the guy to his feet. Together, both hacking on smoke and moving far too slowly for Dean's liking, they both made their way out of the barn.

"There!" Dean gasped. "Made it."

The man he was holding shuddered "No, further."

_Ah Hell._ Dean had pulled a kid from the barn. Some bastard had tried to torch a fucking kid. Poor guy was probably out of his mind. "Hey," Dean murmured, trying to sound comforting. "We're out of the barn. We're safe now."

The kid shook his head. "Further. Trunk."

"Trunk?" Dean asked, a sense of dread filling him as he begun to tug the kid along. "What about your trunk?"

The kid wheezed, obviously confused. Still he made his concerns perfectly clear. "Boom."

"Shit!" Dean picked up the pace.

They were only on the other side of the car when everything blew.

Literally.


	3. Noise at Midnight

AN-Here's another chapter. I'll probably have all the ones I have written up by the end of next week, and then the waiting begins. Thanks for the reviews, and for the favorites and alerts. Once again, if you have any feedback, even negative, I'm interested in hearing it. Til next chapter. Ciao.

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Dean threw himself over the kid, swearing liberally at every thunk from his baby. He took the pieces of debris that landed on his back much more stoically. Luckily enough for him the car took the brunt of the damage, leaving Dean with just a few scrapes.

When it stopped raining fire and doom Dean lifted his head, shaking ash out of his dirty blond spikes. His eyes surveyed the night, looking for another potential disaster. He felt his shoulders relax when he saw none.

"All right big guy," he began prying the kid up from the ground, "we need to get you to a hospital and call the cops." As much as Dean hated the police he didn't really have much of a choice. They would be called one way or another if he brought the kid to the hospital. Dean knew he was far better off in the role of hero than possible suspect. He really wasn't in the mood to be dodging Rosco for the next month.

"No 'spital. No pollies."

Dean smirked. That worked for him but he couldn't exactly leave the dude here. "You gotta place?"

"No," the boy gasped as Dean began working him into the passenger seat of the Impala.

"Guess you get to come home with me." Dean winked. It was definitely one of his better winks, too. Too bad the kid was too out of it to notice.

Then again, the kid was also too out of it to notice Dean taking a back road at over ninety miles an hour, swearing every time he fishtailed. In no time he was at the motel hauling the kid into his room and dropping him on the bed.

"Fuck!" Dean looked over the boy, reconsidering the idea of the hospital.

The guy was a mess. His skin was red, showing signs of light burns from the heat. His right side was covered in blood still oozing slowly from a gash in his forehead. His wrists had scabbed over where Dean had sliced skin as well as tape and deep bruises were forming from the boy's struggle to escape the vehicle. One of his hands was shredded to Hell, splinters and plaster embedded in his knuckles. Dean peeled off the kid's shirt. He winced in sympathy at the dark marks on the guy's chest. Further exploration revealed more nasty bruises on the kid's side and back, though a quick probe revealed no broken ribs. Even if Dean hadn't had an expert's eye it would have been obvious that someone had worked the kid over before trying to turn him into flambé.

Dean cleansed and wrapped gauze around the head wound. The boy under his hands didn't react. His patient was worryingly cooperative until Dean began working on the hand, fishing out the jagged splinters. The generous application of the antiseptic Dean finally elicited a moan. He really hoped the kid was a lefty.

Dean had moved on to bandaging the wounds he had inflicted when he heard the sirens blare by the motel. He turned to watch as the lights of fire engines flickered through the window. Someone had called the fire department sooner than expected. Then again it didn't really matter if the trucks arrived at the house in five minutes or in five hours. Either way Dean had lost a shot at the poltergeist until the scene was cleared, and with the remains of an exploding vehicle in a burnt out barn that was unlikely to be any time soon.

Dean winced, hoping Dad never found out about this. Always finish a hunt. It was the Winchester creed. Never mind that he had single-handedly fished a kid from a burning car. Oh no, that poltergeist was still out there, son. Job's not done, son. Way to fail, son.

Dean sighed and rocked back in his chair, shaking his head to banish his father's voice. John wasn't here and he didn't know that Dean was. Besides, with the cops swarming the farm house it was unlikely that any kids would be in there causing a ruckus. He'd just come back to this after the dust had settled and finish the job then.

Satisfied with his plan Dean kicked his feet up onto the table, keeping his vigil over the figure on his bed.

x—x-x—x

Officer Peterson knocked on the door, falling on years of training to school his face.

Normally he liked his job. It wasn't romantic, the way it was on television, but he was satisfied with the work he did. Normally a good deed was enough to get him through the day. Tonight it was going to take a shot of whiskey.

The door cracked open and Peterson wasn't surprised to see the gleam of a shotgun as Bobby Singer answered the door in nothing more than his pajamas. "Jake."

"Bobby."

The mechanic opened the door, resting the shotgun over his shoulder. "Why the Hell are you banging on my door at three in the morning?"

"Sorry about the time, Bobby, but I need to talk to Sam." Peterson wanted to curse as he saw shotgun come back down.

"He ain't in. Jake, what's this about?"

"Do you know where his is?"

"Dammit, Jake! If you don't tell me what the Hell is going on I swear to god I'm gonna shoot you again, 'cept this time it won't be an accident."

Peterson dropped his shoulders and for a moment absolutely despised his job. He'd known Bobby since they were kids and the last thing he wanted to do was dump more bad news on the guy. He'd been there when Bobby's wife had died and there were times that he was sure that Sam was a gift from God himself. If it hadn't been for that kid Bobby never would have pulled himself out of his hole.

Peterson sighed and scuffed his feet. If someone was going to give Bobby bad news it might as well be a friend. "We got call from Black Forest. Barn fire on this piece of abandoned property. The police had been dealing with lots of weird shit from that place during the past month, so they went out with fire crews to make sure it wasn't arson. Bobby…" Peterson trailed off. He wanted to leave it there. Dear God he wanted to leave it there, but he owed the man before him. "They found the remains of a car in the barn. Something in it caused an explosion. The police were searching the house." Peterson paused to wring his hands. "They found debris from the car. A license plate. It was registered to Sam."

"Was there a body?" The man's voice was low and even.

"Not yet, but they're still digging the car out of the barn. But there were signs of a struggle in the house and out in the yard. It doesn't look good." Peterson didn't want to voice the Black Forest forces' theories.

"Well then, you toddle off on home and you call me when you boys have something more concrete."

"Bobby," Peterson called out, desperate to get the words out.

Instead he found a double barrel pointed in his face. "Jake, if you know what's good for you you will turn around and drive away. I get what you're saying. I ain't deaf and I sure as Hell ain't dumb, but I ain't listening to another thing anyone has to say until they prove to me Sam is gone."

Peterson nodded and turned around, ignoring the shaking of his hands.

Bobby merely shook his head as he watched Jake drive off. As soon as the headlights were out of sight he was on the phone, listening to Sam's voice mail. He didn't bother leaving a message, just skipped down to the next number. With in the hour every single one of Bobby's contacts was returning every favor they ever owed the man.

x—x-x—x

Sam's mind was registering facts before his eyes opened.

He was horizontal and on something soft, probably a bed. Judging by temperature variation he had been covered with a blanket so it was likely that he was in no immediate danger. Not that he could have done much if he was. His head ached and he would have placed money that if he tried to sit up the world would swim away. Judging from the weakness in his limbs it was likely that the disorientation was from blood loss as much as from a concussion.

As he opened his eyes to a gloomy dawn he could feel the way his skin moved, a dull throb like a sunburn. It was a strong reminder of what fate he had almost met.

"Morning, Sunshine!" A way too cheery voice drilled deep into Sam's brain like a nail into a melon. It was only through force of will that he didn't moan in agony.

A face swam into Sam's vision with giant green eyes and the devils smirk bearing down on him. "You know," the cheery guy continued, "normally I make them buy me a drink before I let them into my bed."

Sam blinked. The words danced around Sam, mocking him with hidden meaning. "S'cuse me?" He voice emerged hoarse as his throat lit up, indicating a need for liquid right then and there.

Green eyes smacked his lips in disappointment before disappearing from view. Sam slowly began to ease his way up, ignoring the pain in his wrists as he gradually moved into a position that resembled sitting.

"Whoa, easy there tiger!" Green Eyes was on the bed, helping Sam sit up. When he was satisfied that Sam wasn't going to tip over again he pressed a cup against Sam's lips, pouring the liquid into Sam's mouth before the kid knew what was happening. Sam's body reacted before his brain, sucking back the liquid before any of the potential dangers of accepting a drink from a stranger registered in his mind. The water, drugged or not, was sweet and acted as a balm on Sam's tortured throat. "There we go." Green Eyes tilted the cup higher, allowing Sam to get at all of the liquid from the cup. The guy moved again, coming back just as quick with another glass of heaven. This time as Sam drank he noticed something bitter slide across his tongue and down the back of his throat. He sputtered, trying to push the cup away, to demand an explanation, when the world decided to take a leave of absence.

The second time Sam awoke Green Eyes was in immediate view, with his feet up on the bed while he leaned back in a chair, reading a newspaper. The paper immediately disappeared when the guy noticed Sam's gaze.

He flashed Sam a brilliant smile. "Afternoon, Sleeping Beauty. Ready to join the land of the living?"

"Who are you?" Sam asked, pleased to discover that his voice worked.

The guy continued to smile brightly. "I'm Batman, but you can call me Bruce." Sam gave the guy a blank stare and the dude seemed to sag. "Man," he complained, "the concussed are no fun." He pursed his lips, as though in deep thought, before introducing himself. "Name's Dean Winchester. I'm the guy who hauled your as out of that fire last night."

Sam let out a ragged breath, squashing the memory of the fire to the farthest recess of his mind to be dealt with later. "Thanks," he smiled shyly at the man in front of him, failing to notice that Dean's breath hitched. "I'm Sam."

_Sam._ Dean rolled the name over in his head, attaching it to the image of young man in front of him with dewy eyes. The kid was cute, even as banged up as he was, and he was well muscled. But was there more? Not that the answer to would become apparent any time soon. The boy's eyes were glazed with pain, though not as bad as they had been earlier and this time they were sharp, taking in the room. Still Dean could tell that Sam still wasn't quite with it.

In the kid's defense someone had tried to kill him less than twenty-four hours ago.

Sam glanced around Dean's room, trying to ascertain what the Hell was actually going on. He was in a motel room, single queen-sized, so whoever this guy was he was alone and expecting to stay that way. A few empty beer bottles sat in various places, on the table, on the TV, by the sink, but their presence seemed to be an indication of the passage of time and not of a drinking problem. They were left wherever they had been finished, indicating that cleaning them up was a distraction. The fact that they were still there indicated a need for privacy, so no housekeeping had been in the room for a while.

It was probably for the best. The half hidden bowie knife would have terrified the help, as would the articles detailing the gruesome murder of teenager back in '91. The stories on the injuries that had occurred in the house where she was believed to have been murdered would have done nothing to put their minds at ease.

It wasn't doing much for Sam's piece of mind, either. The guy was a hunter.

"You know about hunters?" Sam realized belatedly that he had spoken aloud when Dean rocked back in his chair, looking surprised and amused. Sam could feel the blood in his veins turn to ice as panic set in. Dean's face flicked from amusement to a serious frown, solidifying Sam's fear. He tried to bolt to the door but his body betrayed him. He was too weak to do more than scramble backwards a few inches and press his body desperately into the headboard. When a hand grasped his shoulder he began thrash violently, ignoring the agony the movements caused.

Dean had been surprised when Sam knew about hunters but the feeling had grown to shock at the kid's reaction. The guy seemed to be having a full out panic attack. Dean reached out a hand to try and steady the kid. At the simple touch Sam had flipped.

"Hey," Dean pulled his hand back. He raised them both in his most non-threatening manner, keeping his voice low and soothing. "I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" Dean continued to croon similar sentiments until Sam stilled. His eyes remained clouded with suspicion. Dean persisted in trying to calm him down. "Would I have patched you up if I was planning on putting a few holes in you, huh?" Sam gave his head a slight shake and Dean took it as a sign that he could get a little closer. "That's right. I don't kill people, Sammy. Okay?"

Sam watched Dean warily, listening for the trap in the words. He knew he wouldn't catch it if it was there, the world was too shaky for that, but the act of scanning made him feel less vulnerable. And Dean was making sense. More importantly, even if Dean was lying there was nothing Sam could do about it. The guy could beat him to death where he lay and Sam wouldn't be able to do more than make noise. Right now the only thing that could help Sam would be information.

"You're here for the poltergeist?"

Dean relaxed at the question, letting his hands fall in front of him as he braced his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, but I was too busy saving your ass to gank it. What?" He watched suspiciously as Sam gave a small grin.

"Why do you think I was out there in the first place?"

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed playfully. "You snaked my gig! Didja get it?"

Sam bristled like a cat. "Of course I did."

"Of course," Dean echoed with a grin. "A job like that should be easy for a kid like you."

Sam bristled again and threw a glare Dean's way. "I'm not a kid."

"Sure you're not, Sammy," Dean drawled. "I bet you can tie your own shoes and everything, but that doesn't make you old enough to buy liquor, does it?" Sam scowled and Dean knew he'd hit the mark.

"It's Sam."

"Whatever you say, Sammy."

"You're a real jerk, you know that?"

Dean shrugged, guilty as charged. "Saved your life though, which totally makes you my bitch." Sam rolled his eyes and began struggling with the blanket Dean had only draped over the kid. Dean watched with a smirk as the guy managed to untangle himself only to look down and moan. He gave his best boyish grin. "Going somewhere?" He held up Sam's shirt, soiled with blood and ashes.

"Give it here."

Dean gave the shirt a considering look. "No."

"What are you, a perv? Give me back my shirt."

"So you can what? Dude, you can barely stand, and frankly your shirt is rank. In fact," Dean gave the rag a toss, watching with satisfaction as it landed in the trash. He flashed Sam a dazzling smile.

It didn't seem to faze the guy. "What the Hell is your problem? In case you haven't noticed all my stuff caught _fire_. That was my only shirt! You owe me one of yours."

"There's no you'd fit into my shirt, Gigantor," Dean scoffed. "But I do like that you are trying to get into my clothes."

Sam silently seethed on the bed, his eyes darkened by frustration. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

Dean shrugged. "Buy a new one."

"Where the Hell do you think my wallet was?"

"Then I'll buy you a new one." Dean offered another smile, this one with a hint of suggestion. He clenched his fists as Sam ignored that one too.

"Yeah, that's a great idea. There are a couple of guys out to kill me and you want to take me clothes shopping? Because that isn't creepy at all. Know what? Thank you for all your help but I'm outta here!" Sam threw his legs over the bed, moving to stand. He managed an entire step before his battered body gave out on him.

Dean swooped in, catching the guy before he hit the floor. Kid had spunk, that was for sure. It took minimal maneuvering to get a dazed Sam back onto the bed and under the blanket. The moment the blanket was settled Sam slipped into oblivion with a moan. Dean gave the guy a poke, making sure he was really out of it. Satisfied that the jab to the kid's bruised ribs hadn't woken him Dean grabbed his keys, ready to hunt down a shirt.


	4. The Runaround

AN-Holy Crap, this is actually working. I managed to get a bit of a start on my newest chapter. Awesome news is awesome. In answer to some questions I've gotten, yes, this has been beta'd. Spelling errors still happen though. Our bad, but c'est la vie. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy. Thank you for favoriting/alerting, and as always, please review. Enjoy!

* * *

Bobby Singer hated the police with instinct of a true hunter. They were the mosquitoes of the supernatural community. Always around, always buzzing and always a pain in the ass. And every once in a while they'd take you out with a metaphorical case of malaria.

So it wasn't his instincts as a hunter that had brought him to the local sheriff, but his instincts as a father, and until Sam was found alive and okay they were the only things keeping Bobby on his feet.

The cup of coffee that Sheriff Hayes passed his way didn't hurt either. The man sat on the edge of his desk, wanting to be ready for any reaction that Bobby might have. He had dealt with parents before and it was always difficult but single parents were worse. They had no one to pull them in and calm them down, to whisper the pretty lies that helped family get through cases like this.

"Mr. Singer, I'm sorry about the circumstances and I can assure you that we are doing everything in our power to find your son." The sheriff started, beginning the delicate process of easing the parent into investigation.

"Cut the shit." Bobby growled, eyes flashing with annoyance. "Every second you waste on trying to make me feel better about the situation is one second longer that my boy stays missing. I don't need none of your touchy feel good crap. I need answers so speak plain. I ain't no trembling damsel that's gonna break down on you, sheriff, not when my boy needs me."

Hayes nodded, glad he was dealing with someone who seemed to understand the score. Time was everything, information was key, and both were sorely lacking. Plus, Mr. Singer looked ready to take anything that Hayes could throw at him and beat it into submission. "Timeline goes that around one am last night an explosion was heard by a local motorist coming from the old Brown property. He phoned it in and the whole emergency response team showed up. We've been having trouble on the property for a while now, so dispatch figured they'd better send everyone just in case. Crew arrived on the scene to discover the barn on fire with most of the building collapsed. The police on the scene began to explore the house, looking for students. Instead we found the license plate. Ran it, found about your son's car and contacted your people." Hayes paused, waiting for Bobby's nod so he knew that they were on the same page.

"Response team put out the fire and crews locked down the scene. Initial findings show signs of a struggle, both with in the house and without but we don't have much to go on. There are a few tracks but the fire crews compromised them pretty badly and it's unlikely we would be able to get much off a footprint anyway. There were a few tread marks and we're trying to match them, but that house is a bit of a local legend so it's just as likely that they come from local kids thrill seeking as from possible suspects.

"But we do know foul play is involved. Crews were able to dig out the car. Back end of the vehicle is gone, which means the explosion originated in the trunk. We're damn lucky about that too." He explained as Bobby looked up in disbelief. "An accelerant was used to start the fire but whoever set it is botched the job. Arson is a bit of an art. You have to use the right amount of accelerant and fuel else the fire will choke from a lack of oxygen. Basically when the barn collapsed it smothered the fire on the vehicle, preserving some of the car. It didn't allow for more air to reach the vehicle, which means once what was in the cab was used the fire died down. Since the fire crews got there in time we were able to save enough of the vehicle to give us a few clues as to what happened."

"And what happened?" Bobby had sat through the entire story, not even flinching, but Hayes figured this next part would get to the man. It always got the people involved.

"Mr. Singer, does your son have any enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt him?"

Bobby shook his head. "He's a good kid from a small town. He's kept his nose clean." The old salvager frowned and pressed his lips. "I have a few people who ain't so fond of me. I can give you a few names but it's real unlikely that any of them would have anything to with this. They tend to travel a lot and Sam's trip here wasn't exactly broadcast."

Hayes nodded with more enthusiasm than he felt. This looked like it would be a dead end, but he would still have someone check it out. Still, it was a perfect lead in to his next question. "What exactly was Sam doing here?"

Bobby smiled wanly. "He heard about your haunted house and figured he'd go take a look. He's always been a bit of a ghost buff. Kid's off to Stanford next week and he wanted to explore one last house before growing up."

Hayes scrubbed his brow with his fingers. He was going to burn that house himself the moment this investigation was done. The damn thing seemed to enjoy making his life harder. The worst part is that he still didn't have any more answers than he had when Bobby had walked through the door. Still his mind swirled with possible theories. Implausible theories, but still possible.

"So, back to the car."

"Excuse me?" Hayes pulled out of thoughts and focused his attention on the grim figure before him.

"You said the car gave you some details on what happened."

Damn. Hayes was hoping Mr. Singer would leave that alone but he should have known better. The man had made the trip from South Dakota in an impossible time frame. He wasn't going to be satisfied until he had all the answers.

Still, the answers weren't pleasant. "The interior of the car was badly burned but we found evidence of tape on the steering wheel as well as traces of what we believe to blood."

"What else?" Bobby grunted.

Hayes tapped his moustache lightly as he thought, running through the evidence again. "We found a half burnt jacket on the scene, outside of the vehicle, and an unregistered shotgun, though that could have easily belonged to the previous residents. We also found a substance gathered on the floor of the car."

"What do you mean substance? You mean like sulfur of something?" Bobby watched the sheriff guardedly.

Hayes just shook his head. "No, it was salt."

"Salt."

"Yep. Salt." He focused on Bobby, seeming for the first time since the meeting began to truly take the man in. "That mean anything to you?"

Bobby's ice blue eyes bored into Hayes.

"Not a thing."

x—x-x—x

Bobby slammed the door of his truck. _God Dammit!_ Why the hell had there been salt in the kid's car? Sam was meticulous with his possessions to the point of being anal. If the boy had spilt some on a previous trip he would have spent hours vacuuming the rug to get it all out and he wouldn't have been using it on this hunt. It was a damned poltergeist! There wasn't anything _to_ salt-and-burn. There was no way Sam would have been dicking around with it, especially in the driver's seat.

Which meant that some fucking hunters had gotten it into their heads to go after _his_ son.

In some ways this was a very good thing, the logical part of Bobby's mind reasoned. It gave him a solid lead with a specific pool of suspects. It also meant that Sam had left that barn alive and under his own power. The tape on the wheel had been there to keep Sam in the car, and since there was no body Sam had obviously not complied. Plus Sam was nothing if not smart. The kid would be lying low or he would be on his way out of town. Sam was level headed and had a healthy instinct for survival, so he wouldn't be on some half-baked quest for vengeance against the bastard who tried to salt and burn him.

_Tried to burn him alive_.

The thought shot through Bobby a bullet, stealing his breath. If he hadn't been so fucking pissed he would have thought he was having a heat attack. Some fucker out there, someone who was supposed to be on _this_ side of the good fight, had tried to burn his baby boy alive. The asshole hadn't even thought the kid worth the bullet. It was a blessing, in some ways, because it would have been the only reason that Sam got out of the car, but the principle of the thing was horrendous.

Bobby swore out loud as he pulled into the motel parking lot, leaning against the steering wheel and breathing heavily. He couldn't afford to be emotional. He had a job to do and there was no way he would be able to find Sam if he started looking with tears in his eyes. He wasn't some milkmaid who'd broken a nail and he would be damned if he acted like one. He had a job to do.

So Bobby got out of his truck with purpose and allowed the hunter to take over, forcing his body to conform to his will. By the time he was at the checkout desk he looked every bit like a helpless, harmless old man.

Even before he made it to the counter the young girl behind it had already connected with him. "Can I help you with something?" she asked in that soft voice people used around others who were upset, as though being quiet somehow managed to right the wrongs of the world.

Bobby pushed back his inner dialogue, ramming himself into character. He gave a shaky laugh that was too genuine for comfort. "Gee, I hope so miss." He hung his head miserably. "My boy was supposed to meet me in town yesterday, but he never showed up and he ain't answering his phone, which is plum unlike him and I'm more than a might worried. I was wondering if you've seen him?" He looked up, his blue eyes imploring.

The girl leaned forward, the sad old man reminding her of her granddad before he passed. She was trying hard to resist the urge to lean over the counter and give the man a hug. Instead she settled for looking at the picture the man passed her. She could only shake her head at the image of guy. "He's not here." She would have remembered. There was no way that someone that yummy would check into the motel with out her knowing about it, and there was even less of a chance that she would forget anyone who looked like that. It was too bad the guy was missing. The dating world was a better place with him in it.

The old man in front of her seemed to deflate and she couldn't help but wince. "Tell you what," she gave him her best comforting smile, "I've got a copier in the back. You give me your number and I'll put this put a copy of the picture on the desk with it, so if anyone sees your boy they'll be able to get a hold of you."

"Thank you," the old man whispered, tears forming at the edge of his eyes.

The motel clerk just patted his hands as he passed her the photo and she wrote his number down in painstakingly clear writing. By the time Bobby left the office he had a stack of missing posters complete with Sam's photo, Bobby's cell, and the address of the room he had managed to book at half price. He'd get the posters distributed and then set up a base camp. It would give Sam a chance to find him when he was looking for the boy and the girl at the desk would be willing to give the kid a key, not that Sam couldn't pick the lock if he needed to.

As Bobby turned the corner of the motel, distracted by his schemes, he plowed into another solid body, sending his missing posters scattering.

"Shit!" Bobby cursed, scrambling on his knees to grab as many as the papers as he could before the wind scattered them to hell.

"I got 'em!" The punk who had run into Bobby sprinted, preventing the papers from making a quick escape. He even dropped his shopping bag to free up both hands. Between the two of them they only lost one poster, which had mockingly drifted across the street and seemed to lazily wander down the sidewalk, as though it knew it was now in no danger of being caught.

"Sorry," the boy grinned sheepishly and went to pass Bobby the fliers. He paused, mid pass, then scooped off the top paper, giving Bobby the rest. He frowned at the poster, studying it hard, then handed it to Bobby with a sigh.

"You seen him?" Bobby eyed the boy over, knowing the kid had reacted for a reason.

"Nah," the guy shook his head hesitantly then offered a sympathetic smile, "but I've been there. It sucks out loud." Bobby nodded in agreement. That was one way of putting it. The kid picked up his shopping bag and gave his head a small shake. "I really hope you find him."

Bobby heard the _because I didn't_ in the boy's voice and he couldn't suppress a small shudder. He would not think that way, because that would be giving up on Sam. He stepped back into this truck, determined to check the next hotel in town. Sam had to be at one of them. He had to be.

It was with those thoughts that Bobby drove off, not once thinking that he should have circled the motel to see if it had a back parking lot, which is how he missed the unmistakable and far too familiar '67 Impala.

As soon as the old guy's truck was out of sight Dean ran to the room, practically throwing the door open. His pulse didn't slow until he saw the lump on the bed rise and fall in the steady rhythm of breathing. He slumped against the wall, sagging in short lived relief.

He had to get Sam out of town. Now. The old dude was a hunter, there was no mistake about that. Dean could see it in his eyes. He hoped he had gotten away from the guy fast enough to avoid that type of recognition but he was a Winchester. There were only two things in life he could count on; that there was something to hunt and that his luck really was just that bad. The old fart had probably made it the moment he had spotted him. Dean had to assume that he had lost the edge of anonymity.

The guy had also had enough posters to make sure everyone in the town was knew what Sam looked like. Combined with the whole tragic grandfather look the entire place would be ready to hand Sam to the guy in a jiffy. The kid was a sitting duck as long as he was in Black Forest and Dean was damned if he had left his favorite jacket to burn while saving this kid's ass just to let some old bastard get another try.

The Winchester boy began to clean up the room, meticulously peeling his case notes off the wall, careful to remove all traces of tape. Tape everywhere was a sure sign of a hunter and Dean didn't want to leave these guys a trail to follow. He moved through his room quickly and efficiently, eliminating all traces of him and Sam, going so far as to pull the garbage bags. He'd ditch them in a dumpster the next time he had to fill the Impala.

He carried a load to the Impala then drove the car back to park it closer to the room. By the time he was done with the place the only signs that the room had actually been used were a few towels and the messed up blankets. None of that was truly incriminating so he could let house cleaning handle it.

Dean moved to rouse Sam, shaking the sleeping giant firmly. The guy moaned but opened his eyes and Dean noticed the uneven set of his pupils. The concussion wasn't getting better but there wasn't anything to be done about it. He couldn't exactly take the kid to the hospital with hunters on his tail. Even then, there wouldn't be much that they could do about it that Dean couldn't. He still had some pills from his last concussion so he could help with the swelling, but everything else relied upon time.

Sam moaned again, shutting his eyes against the light. He gave Dean a bleary glare when the man tapped his cheek.

"That's right, Sammy. Time to get up and at 'em." Dean tugged Sam into a sitting position and began wrestling him into the shirt he had purchased.

Even with his concussion Sam noticed the urgency in Dean's movements. "Dean?" he mumbled groggily, "What's going on?"

"It's time to book it, Sammy. You got some place I can drop you off?"

"I can't repay you."

Dean leered. "I got you in my bed half-naked. I think I more than owe you."

Sam frowned, unsure if Dean was being serious or not. It was hard to tell as the guy buttoned up his shirt with cold efficiency. In the end it didn't really matter. He didn't actually have many other options. Bobby would be hours away and judging from the way Dean moved he didn't have that kind of time. Still, he didn't want Dean to know where he lived, where Bobby lived. The guy may have saved his life but he didn't know Dean from Adam.

He considered his other options. They weren't many. "There's a place I know in Nebraska…" Sam trailed off hesitantly.

"Great!" Dean grinned. "I drive, you navigate."


	5. Male Bonding of Manly Proportions

An-Hey again. Just me. Additions to my disclaimer, I don't own the rights or royalties to Queen songs, or anything that comes out of Freddy Mercury's mouth, on top of not owning supernatural. (If you don't know who Queen is I suggest you find out [seriously!]). Thanks for all the favoriting, subscribing and the reviewing. Reviewers get the biggest shout out cause they do the most work. Here's chap 5, which is almost as good as chap 6 (chap 6 is AMAZING! you'll see).

So yeah, enjoy!

* * *

There is a din. Clinking glasses, grumbling voices. Outside a car backfires. Over the noise snatches of music can be heard.

_Another one bites the dust_

Dean leans against the counter, smiling and flirting with Jo who is watching him with something akin to hero worship.

_Another one bites the dust_

Ellen rubs down the counter, grumbling good-naturedly at one of the bar patrons who is sharpening a knife on her counter, peppering it with silver flakes.

_And another one gone, and another one gone_

Bill comes through the back entrance, waving to someone unseen before limping his way over to Bobby. The two fall into a deep discussion, both frowning and grumbling.

_Another one bites the dust_

The windows explode inwards inward in a storm of thunder and glass and bullets. Patrons yell and scream and red mist rises like smoke.

_Hey, I'm gonna get you too_

Dean is lying on the counter, one green eye open and staring blanking. A red hole leaking brain matter is all that remains of the other.

_Another one bites the dust. _

x—x-x—x

Dean watched in concern as Sam woke with a pained gasp, staring around the Impala wildly, glad he hadn't decided to arm the kid. The last thing he needed was more bloodstains on his upholstery. It was going to be hard enough getting the existing ones out. While the ladies may have dug Dean and his Impala they really didn't do bloodstains. Something about a serial killer vibe. People these days had such trust issues.

"What?" Dean asked testily. Sam's gaze had finally settled on something; him, and he really didn't like the look he was receiving.

Sam blinked, as though he hadn't realized he was staring, and scrubbed his face with his hands. "Sorry, weird dream," he offered at Dean's skeptical glance. His own turned towards the window and he allowed his mind to swept clean by the sight of green fields.

Dean hummed nonchalantly as he turned down the highway, hoping that Sammy boy didn't want to share.

The kid didn't seem intent on it, falling into a silence that was either induced by the concussion or by a penchant to brood. As much as Dean wanted to pass it off as blunt force trauma, Sam had that look. That 'I like to think and be angsty' look. Worse yet, the look was good on Sam. His sharp features and expressive eyes gave him a soulful visage when he was lost in thought instead of the sour pucker that most people got. It was sexy as hell.

Unfortunately being sexy as hell wasn't really what Dean looked for in a passenger during a long road trip. It wasn't that sexiness wasn't appreciated, but if it were what Dean truly desired he would have just plastered a few scandalous pictures to the passenger seat. No, if Dean had a real live person in his car they had better provide him with more than eye candy. Just because he didn't want Sam to talk about his dream didn't mean he didn't want Sam to talk. Besides, the kid had a concussion. Talking was the most efficient way to keep an eye on it. Possibly. Maybe? That and Dean was too lazy to change the cassette in his tape player.

"So tell me about yourself, Sammy."

Sam shifted to give Dean a bleary, pain filled glare. "I told you. It's Sam."

"Sammy what?"

Sam ran his tongue along the bottom of his teeth, unsure what to do. He didn't know Dean, not even by reputation and that bothered him. Sam was rarely in the dark about anything and when it did happen it didn't last long. In the hunting world information was as sure a weapon as salt.

At the thought of salt, Sam found him running a hand through his hair. He could feel the gritty crystals against his scalp and it made him grimace. The smell of smoke still wafted off him. It was just as potent a reminder of the previous night as the injuries that were nagging to be tended to. All Sam really wanted was to shower and crawl into his bed where he could feel safe. When he woke up he could finish packing what he would need for Stanford and pour through Bobby's newest book. If he was feeling up to it he could toss in a game of fetch with Rumsfeld.

But he wasn't at Bobby's. He was in a car with Dean Winchester, a hunter who had risked life and limb pulling him from a fire, unless this was some elaborate conspiracy that had to do with the people who were trying to bump Sam off. He doubted the latter. The guy in the barn had made it pretty clear that the only thing he wanted from Sam was his life. The only thing Dean had hinted at wanting was Sam's body, and Sam was pretty sure Dean had been joking.

Still, Dean was the only hunter that Sam had ever met that was around his own age. Most people didn't join as early as Sam had and the few were his age tended to get themselves killed in their first year on the job. Sam was curious despite himself, and his judgment was severely impaired by concussive force. He was willing to open up just a little bit to the man driving the car.

"I'm Sam Singer," he said.

Dean frowned, the name tugging at the edges of his mind. He brushed it aside. If it were important it would come to him later. "Sammy Singer? Seriously? You named by Dr. Seuss or something?"

Sam just offered a shrug as he watched the passing power poles. "Or something." The tone clearly said 'don't ask.'

Dean didn't. "What made you pick up the poltergeist case?"

"My dad." Sam gave a small smile. "He says he wanted me to have 'one last job before I left,' but personally I think he's planning something. He's been insisting that there be a going away party and I've been trying to talk him out of it. I think he wanted me out of the house so he could organize it without me fighting him on it."

"Where you going?" Dean asked, his interest piqued.

"I got into Stanford."

Dean stared at his passenger incredulously, jerking the wheel in surprise. "You're a geek?" he asked in mock horror.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Well I couldn't leave all this ghost busting to jocks."

Dean huffed, puffing out his chest. "I'll have you know I'm plenty good at this."

"Which is why your walls were plastered with misinformation. I bet you even bothered to dig up the girl." Dean seemed to hunch over the wheel, a 'who, me?' expression stealing over his face. "You did, didn't you?" Sam let out a soft chortle. "Dude, I came down here looking for a poltergeist and only a poltergeist. How many spirit types did you have to eliminate before you made it to that conclusion? I bet you had to call someone and have them explain it." Sam chuckled again as Dean shifted in his seat. He had clearly hit the mark.

"You keep at this, geek-boy, and I'll make you walk the rest of the way there." Dean scowled playfully. Then he frowned for real. "Speaking of there, where exactly are we going?"

"Harvelle's."

"Who-nows?"

It was Sam's turn to frown. "You've never heard of the Roadhouse?"

"The what now?"

"How have you survived?"

"On my good looks and charming personality. Obviously."

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes, letting his gaze wander back to the road. "Obviously."

x—x-x—x

The stars seemed to shimmer in time to the beat of the mournful country wail that poured through the door, floating of the dim hubbub of slurred voices and clinking bottles.

It was a rundown western joint in a rough neighborhood on the bad end of town. The type of place city boys went to play cowboy and cowboys avoided like the plague. A flickering sign dejectedly displayed the name as The Watering Hole. A tired horse that failed to inspire competence was portrayed standing in a flaking painted puddle. The night air smelled of beer, piss, and cigarettes, as patrons walked in and stumbled out. The bar was an eyesore nestled the bosom of disfigured landscape.

The inside matched the out. Blue smoke swirled under hazy lights as patrons and animal heads looked over scarred wallpaper that had seen too many bar fights. A dance floor hosted the occasional girl in high boots and short skirts swaying enticingly to dull tunes. The pool table was twisted and warped and the balls would roll of their own accord. The regulars, what few there, loved the old table. They said it added a challenge. What they meant was that it made it easier to separate young bucks from daddy's money.

In dark corner a lone figure nurses an acrid beer that tastes like horse piss as he hunches over tatty book, alternating between scrawling jumbled notes about his latest hunt and reading details about the next one.

A younger man emerges from the bathroom, clicking his cell phone shut. He gracefully maneuvers his way through the crowd to the back table, pausing only to get a shot of whiskey. He's knows he's going to need it.

He sits down at the table. "We need to talk."

The elder of the pair doesn't even look up from his scribbles. "So talk."

The younger licks his lips, nervous. "It's about the kids."

All motion ceases as the older looks at the younger, his eyes sharp like a javelin, piercing through every layer of armor. It's something that the younger has always admired. This is the first time that haze has swung his way.

"Did you find another one?"

The younger shakes his head. "No." The gaze intensifies and the younger feels like a child again, instead of his early thirty years. He winces even as he realizes that that look is going to make him spill his guts. "The last one got away."

"Got away?" It's amazing how a simple question can sound like a threat.

"That's what I said." He knows the older man wants more, but he needs to have some control in this situation. He needs to be more than just a lackey in this hunt.

"How?"

The younger shrugs. "I don't know. He was bound, bleeding and barely coherent when I left him. The fire was already well on it's way. He shouldn't have been able to escape."

"But he did." The voice is so devoid of emotion that the younger is tempted to cite an exorcism. Just in case.

"Police have no body."

The older man reaches for his beer, taking an angry sip. "He make it back to Singer yet?"

"No. Bobby's been seen around town. He's desperate enough he's working with the locals." The eldest man nods, disturbed. It irritates the younger. "I don't see what the problem is. Singer's old. He's no threat."

The eldest snorts. "Hunters don't get old. They get better or they die. Singer's been doing this longer than me, which is why you were supposed to wait until the kid left for California. The man's got connections and nothing to lose. He pins this on you, you're dead."

"We were careful."

"The kid got away."

The younger smiles. White teeth bleed light against the man's mocha lips. "He won't again. I'll handle it."

"You'd better." The 'or else' remains unspoken.

x—x-x—x

Sam let out a sensual moan.

Hot water pounded against his aching muscles. It ran off his toned muscles and slid down his long legs to swirls with salt, blood, and ashes before being sucked into the drain to begin a long journey to nowhere. He rubbed his fingers into his hair, working the shampoo deeper into his scalp, the sweet smell of flowers rising with heat and steam. He twisted, allowing the water to assault his chest as he worked on lathering his hair, feeling his body slip further into a state of relaxation after every passing second. As far as Sam was concerned the tiny room in the shabby motel was his own personal slice of heaven.

Dean was enjoying himself as well. He had situated himself on the queen-sized bed closest to the door and was sharpening his favorite knife, enjoying the conversation between the whetstone and the blade. He studious ignored the silver flakes that were falling onto to dull maroon of the blanket. In a dive like this metal shavings were hardly the worst things housekeeping had found in the morning. Though Dean had laughed it off when Sam groused that the place charged by the hour he had a not so sneaking suspicion that the younger man had been right on the money.

The whetstone paused in its journey across the blade as another moan poured from the bathroom. Dean chuckled in understanding. A hot shower after a bad hunt was comparable to sex. It never beat great sex, but Dean had had some hookups that he really wished he had traded for showers instead. Showers were always guaranteed to be long, hot and steamy whereas that waitress in Tampa had just… been.

He shook off his shudder at the memory and slid the knife to its nightly resting place under his pillow. As he stretched out he ran through his mental checklist. The door was locked, the windows were locked, everything had been salted, not that Dean expected a ghost but better over prepared than under. He had also propped a chair gently against the door. Anyone who came through the entrance was guaranteed to knock it over and create one hell of a racket and then find themselves with a knife up their ass for daring to disturb Dean's slumber. It was with that thought that Dean allowed sleep to finally claim his mind.

As one occupant in the room slipped into oblivion the other emerged from the bathroom, unsure if he should be amused or alarmed. In the car Dean had come off as confident and easy-going, something that Sam was coming to envy, but he hadn't seemed stupid. Yet here he was, sound asleep in a room with someone he didn't really know. Part of Sam wanted to wake up and scream at him for doing something so naïve. Even an injured Sam was fully capable of killing a sleeping Dean. A larger part of him, one that he usually had buried deeper, was flattered that Dean was willing to trust him enough to drop off. It didn't make sense but it was nice.

Sam sank into the mattress, crossing his ankles and lying on his back. He looked over at the sleeping figure, taking the time to get a good look at Dean's features instead of the furtive glances that he had been stealing all day.

Boyish was the first word that jumped to mind to describe Dean, even when he wasn't running his mouth off. Soft brown hair peppered with blond strands stuck up in long spikes that, when combined with Dean's sculpted cheekbones, gave him a rakish look. His nose was sprinkled with freckles that attempted to hide behind his tan and brought out the color of his generous lips. His features, combined with the brilliant green eyes that Sam knew hid behind closed lids were the type to draw women to him like moths to the flame. And Sam really couldn't blame them. If he were gay he would definitely find Dean attractive. Not that he was. Gay, that is. Just because he had never had a girlfriend didn't mean anything at all. Because Sam wasn't gay.

And Dean was only a little attractive.


	6. Doctors and Defeated Egos

AN-I have to admit, I loved writing this chapter. I hope you love reading it. Thanks for all the love you guys have been sending my way and I hope you enjoy.

* * *

"Ash, open up." Ellen Harvelle rapped on the door. The sign reading 'Dr. Badass is' rattled, causing the option of 'in' to swing wildly. She waited a minute, knowing that Ash treated his room like his kingdom and his kingdom like a nudist colony of one. As much as she loved that boy she was a happily married woman who had enough emotional scars to last a lifetime.

When nothing changed Ellen knocked harder. "Ash, open the goddamn door."

"Read the sign," came the muffled reply.

Ellen slammed her hands on her hips. "Ash, have you been sniffing glue again? I haven't called ever called you Dr. Badass. Do you really think I'm gonna start now?"

The door cracked open, revealing a fully clothed Ash, thank whatever good spirits were out there, and the flickering lights of a multitude of computer screens. Ash leaned up against the doorframe, resting his elbow up above his head and showing off his wiry arms. He gave his head a lazy toss, the back of his mullet shaking like a mane. The gesture was accompanied by a languid grin. "Why hello Ellen. What can I do for you today?"

"Don't play dumb cause I know you ain't," she snapped. "That was Bobby on the phone. Again. Sam's still missing. Now you tell me you got something for me."

Ash's grin dropped. "Ellen…"

Ellen crossed her arms, the lines from years of difficult living making themselves known on her face. "Dammit Ash! That boy's family!" She tried to ignore the hysteria creeping into her own voice.

Ash moved into her space, placing both hands on her shoulders. It was the closest Ellen would let most people get to her. She was a hard woman living a hard life. Physical comfort was a luxury that she rarely indulged in. Then again, the last time she had been this worried had been when she had seen Bill come back from his final hunt. Most of him had come back, anyway. The only blessing about that night was that Bill had finally got out of hunting while he was good and alive.

Ash lowered his head so he could stare the woman straight in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak, to offer some type of assurance when a crash came from the front. He drew back to peer down the hall. "How are people this rowdy in the mornin'?" He grumbled. "Why are you even open?"

"We're not."

Ellen was down the hall, heading for the nearest gun. Ash ducked into his room for a beer, disappointed that he didn't have any popcorn ready. Any dang fool that tried to mess with a Harvelle always made for a good show.

x—x-x—x

Sammy Singer was proving to be a constant source of entertainment.

When Dean had awoken at the crack of dawn in the motel Sam had already been up and lying on the bed watching Dean as though he expected him to turn into the boogieman. Though Dean hadn't, metamorphosis wasn't on his list of awesomeness, he had pulled the knife out from under his pillow. Sam's expressive eyes had doubled in size at the sight of the blade and Dean was fairly certain that they had filled with grudging respect.

Dean had offered a few flippant comments but Sam didn't seem in the mood to rise to the bait and instead seemed to be tracking Dean's movements like a trapped animal. Dean actually took it as a good sign. It meant that Sam's concussion was improving. It also showed that Sam was a hunter who was capable of more than just being jumped. Not that Dean had truly doubted that but assurances were still nice. The only down side to Sam's recovering wits was that all the progress Dean had made in the car the previous day seemed to have vanished.

So Dean had danced around Sam cautiously, more to put him at ease than out of any real fear of Sam. The kid still had his shirt off and the dark bruises running down his side would make a nice sweet spot to tap if Sam decided to panic. Not that Sam seemed stupid enough to react that way but Dean had been taught to always have his options open. He had also been taught that to fight 'fair' actually meant anything goes.

Things had actually worked out better than he had hoped. Sam had been forced to give ground and though he was as polite as punch about it, Dean could tell that the kid wasn't comfortable with asking. Still, Dean had helped him into his shirt instead of making the hundred innuendos that had come to mind. He had also convinced Sam to let him bandage his ankle, which was showing signs of a bad sprain. Sam hadn't let him examine the cuts on his hand, though, or the knife wounds on his wrists. From Dean's vantage they looked okay, but he was going to have this Ellen that Sam was determined to meet examine them when she could.

Dean had gotten Sam into the car with minimal trouble and he had sprung for breakfast at a drive through and had bought Sam both the coffee the kid had ordered and a breakfast sandwich, which the kid had not. Dean had silently congratulated himself as Sam wolfed it down when he thought Dean wasn't looking.

After that, the ride had become easier and Sam had allowed himself to be lulled into easy conversation. They had shared views on sports teams, compared favorite weapons and swapped stories of the most ridiculous hunts they had ever been on. Dean had recounted the story of a haunted port-a-potty his dad had tried to exorcise at a county fair that had ended with a crowd thinking that John was doing an act. Dean had seen an opportunity and had managed to wrangle close to fifty bucks from an amazed audience.

Sam had topped the story by telling about the time a reporter had tailed Bobby through what was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn and had ended up as a failed curse. Some school kid had found a book of magic and had bungled a summons so badly that it had raised the spirits of its intended victim's dead pets. Even at their most vicious goldfish didn't make very good ghosts.

Dean had felt the atmosphere of the Impala ease noticeably when Sam made the expected pun on John's shitty job and Sam had fired back a witty retort when Dean had started making pet cemetery references. The two slipped into an easy camaraderie and Sam had grown more and more relaxed with every hour that passed in the car. He had, in fact, grown so relaxed that he slipped into the sleep he had denied himself the previous night.

Which was why when Dean pulled into the empty parking lot of the shady looking establishment named the Roadhouse, he decided to let Sammy sleep. Anyone who could doze off after that much caffeine needed all the rest they could get. Plus, Sam had filled Dean in on the true nature of the Roadhouse and Dean was fairly certain that walking Sam into a joint that was packed to the rafters with hunters was a less than stellar plan.

Dean had parked his baby behind the building, effectively hiding Sam from wandering eyes, and made his way to the front entrance. The door, though locked, provided Dean with little resistance as he pulled out his lock pick set, a sixteenth birthday present. It opened silently and Dean took his first step into the Roadhouse.

It wasn't what Dean had expected but at the same time it seemed to fit better than what Dean's imagination had conjured. At first glance the place appeared to be like any other bar out in the boondocks. The mismatched furniture snubbed the idea of class in favor of functionality and showed signs of wear yet none of neglect. The tables were clean but lacked decorations. A pool table and a jukebox sat on one side, giving a small space for people to unwind that wouldn't disturb other patrons. A dusty piano sat by itself and Dean would have bet the Impala that the thing was out of tune. The bar counter was packed just like any other and it had a hard liquor selection that made Dean smile. The rest of the place was tackily decorated in a sparse and modest taste that gave the establishment character without creating clutter.

It also provided a clever disguise for the protection charms that seemed to be everywhere. A myriad of symbols that Dean didn't recognize littered the place. Some had been cleverly hidden in paintings while others were simply carved into the rafters. A charm dangled off the antlers of a buck head. Small trays lined the tops of the doors and windows, Latin inscriptions barely visible on the wood. Dean was certain the trays were filled with salt or cat's eye shells. Maybe both. A bouquet of dried flowers was nailed by the entrance and though he was no botanist Dean was certain he had spotted St. John's Wart hidden behind the corpses of prettier plants. A quick inspection of an extra bottle of vodka revealed a cross floating in the bottom. Dean beamed gleefully at the bottle of holy water. Sam had been right. It was amazing that Dean had survived this long without knowing about this place.

His revelry was broken by a soft poke to his spine. "Heh." He let out a weak laugh. "I take it you're happy to see me?"

"No." The voice was far sweeter than Dean expected. "It's a rifle."

Dean felt the barrel jab him again. He smiled and shook his head. "Sweetheart," he explained patiently, "when you put a gun on a man you never place the barrel directly against his back. It lets him do this."

Dean spun around, his left hand knocking the barrel away from him as his right swooped up and grabbed it. A quick jerk pulled the gun from his opponent's hands and into his. He pulled the slide, spitting the bullet to the floor and rendering the gun harmless. He gave his assailant his best 'ta-dah' smile. Danger averted, he took in the sweet sight before him.

The girl was young. How young was difficult to tell. She could have been anywhere from ten to twenty. Had he not been in a bar Dean would have leaned towards ten. Hell, despite the fact that she clearly had breasts he was still leaning towards ten. She was petite. Long blonde hair cascaded down her back and dark eyebrows highlighted the browns of her eyes. Dean felt kinda bad that he had disarmed her. She looked harmless.

She punched him in the face.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean grabbed his nose, fingers probing to make sure it wasn't broken. He glared at the girl. She smirked from behind her raised fists before once again driving them towards his face.

"Jesus!" Dean dodged to the side. The girl's momentum carried her forward, throwing her off balance as she failed to hit her target. Dean took advantage of the opening. He thrust out his arm and snagged her wrist. Jerking her close, he used his other arm to snake around her neck. Utilizing his height, he pulled back far enough to force her to lean into him, but not so much as to hurt her.

"Now that I have your attention I would like to ask you a question." Dean waited for the girl to grunt before continuing. "Do you know where Ellen is?" The girl grunted again. Dean loosened his grip on her throat so she could respond to his queries.

She responded with the back of her head.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean's voice was muffled by his hands. He stumbled back as the slip of a girl planted a roundhouse kick to his solar plexus.

The next time Dean was able to drag in a breath, to see past the lights in his eyes, he was laying on the ground amidst broken furniture staring down the barrel of what was becoming a far too familiar rifle.

"I take it you know her." Dean wiped at his nose. His hand came back red.

The girl looked down, her eyes hard. "Move and I'll shoot you."

"Great." Dean grumbled as blood ran down his chin. It dribbled onto his shirt, leaving crimson splotches on the light material. "At least you won't be beating me to death."

A smiled ghosted across her face. "Well," she drawled, "I like to keep my options open."

"Jo!" A woman's voiced cried out from another room.

"In here!" The girl didn't look away as she called out. Damn.

An older woman swept into the room, pistol drawn. The moment she spotted Dean she trained the gun on his chest. Her eyes flashed anger and she drew the hammer back. Dean offered a weak grin and held his bloody hands in the air. "Hi," he offered.

"Jo honey, whose this?" The older woman's tone was even.

"Dunno. He came in looking for an Ellen." The two women shared a look.

"Say why?"

"No." Dean interjected. "I didn't say why. I wasn't given a chance to before she started hitting me." Dean glared accusingly at Jo.

The older woman was less than sympathetic. "Good job, honey. Now I'll take over from here." Jo backed off, letting the older women get a clearer shot at Dean. She squatted down, keeping the pistol aimed at him. "Now boy, what do you want with Ellen?"

"Well, I've heard good things about her-" Dean's explanation was cut off by yet another fist. "Goddamit! Will you people quit hitting me?" Dean ran his fingers across his face, please to see that the blow hadn't split his lip.

The woman stared intently at Dean. Her business like demeanor was beginning to unnerve him. "I'll ask again. What do you want with Ellen?"

Dean bit back another sarcastic response, concerned for the safety of his face. "A friend set me to deliver a package to her."

"What friend?" The professional façade was tinged with genuine curiosity.

"Depends. You Ellen?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

The woman opened her mouth to retort but was cut off as another person stormed into the room. The guy was older than Dean but younger than the woman threatening to shoot him. He wore a flannel shirt open with the sleeves torn off. A black muscle shirt peeked out from under that, hiding his chest. Faded blue jeans and cowboy boots completed his look, giving him the appearance of a hillbilly from a bad sitcom. The mullet, the dopey look in his eyes and the beer bottle in his hand were stereotypical to the point of being comical.

"Hey Jo." He nodded at the violent blonde before turning his attention to the scene on the floor. "So Ellen, did I miss anything?" He crouched down and took a sip of his beer, studying Dean. "I think I missed something."

Ellen sighed, letting her head sag in defeat. She turned to glare at the newcomer. "Dammit Ash! Can your timing get any worse?" She shook her head in exasperation and turned back to Dean, a quirk in her lips. "Yeah. I'm Ellen."

"Hey Ellen." Dean tried to offer a charming smile but the blood running down his face ruined the effect. Ellen winced a bit guiltily at that. Good. She deserved to feel guilty, Dean thought spitefully. He was willing to admit he had a petty streak where his face was concerned. "Can I have a minute of your time?" His eyes flicked to Ash and Jo. "Alone?" There was an unmistakable edge in his tone.

Ellen kept the gun lowered but shook her head. "Nah. Anything you've got to tell me you say in front of them."

"Even if it's about Sam?" Dean raised a brow.

The pistol was up and pressed against his forehead hard enough to bruise, but it was Ellen's eyes that were scaring Dean.

They reminded him of his father.

"I swear to God if you've harmed a hair on that boy's head-"

"Jesus lady! I'm on your side, here!" All of Dean's pretenses dropped as his hands were once again raised. You didn't manage to hunt for a few years without developing a few survival instincts.

The gun never wavered. "Where's Sam?"

Dean weighed his options. He could get Sam to the person Sam had asked to be delivered to or he could get shot in a place that would totally ruin his face forever. It wasn't a logic puzzle by any means.

"He's in my car."


	7. Yeah, That's Him

AN-Hey guys, once again a big thanks to everyone whose read/reviewed/fav'd/subscribed to the story. It means a lot. This chapter is a bit short, but I like it. Hope you do to.

* * *

Sam's fingers twitched. His face was clouded as his head once again filled with screams and music. A familiar voice floated over the carnage, crying his name.

"Sam."

He tried to shy away, to hide from the horror, from the accusations.

The voice was relentless. "Sam? Sam, honey, you need to wake up."

_Wake up? _The comment confused him. Sam wasn't the one who was sleeping. Everyone else was lying down.

"Sam, wake up!"

His eyes flew open at the command, the last echoes of Queen fading as a familiar face floated into view. "Ellen?" he asked, disorientated.

Ellen smiled down at Sam, her dark eyes kind. "Hey Samuel. Glad to see you, kid."

A frown stole over his face. Ellen rarely called him Samuel. "Am I in trouble?" He couldn't remember doing anything wrong.

Ellen laughed a bit hysterically. "Well, you ain't with me. Now come on. It's time to get going. Up now." She grabbed his elbow.

Sam blinked, the cobwebs shaking free. "Ellen?" He glanced around wildly, taking in the surroundings. Ellen had pulled him half out of the passenger seat of the Impala, giving him a better view. He was startled by the sunlight glinting off of the odds and ends that were spread across the property. A very familiar property. Sam blinked in disbelief at the back of the Roadhouse. A grin spread across his face as Ellen pulled him into a hug. "Hey Ellen," he whispered into her hair. Her arms tightened around his chest, causing him to gasp in pain.

"Sorry." Ellen pulled back but didn't let go of his arm. "Let's get you inside, kiddo. Jo and Ash are waiting inside for you." She positioned herself under his arm, helping haul him into the building.

"Where's Dean?" Sam glanced around, not seeing the other man.

"We've all been worried sick about you." Ellen began heaving Sam through the kitchen. "Bobby's been out of his mind looking for you."

Sam felt the sting of guilt on his conscience before he recognized that Ellen had ignored his inquiry. "Ellen. Where is Dean?"

She pushed open the door to the bar. "That him?"

Ash sat at the counter sucking on a bottle. He grinned and raised it when he saw Sam before taking a long sip. Jo, on the other hand, was sitting on the counter. Her long legs dangled as she kicked them out. She smiled cheekily at Sam, tapping the rifle she had balanced in her lap.

The rifle was pointed at a familiar figure. Tied to a chair. Blood splattered the front of his shirt. The scarlet liquid had obviously been wiped off his face and little rolls of tissue paper had been stuffed up his nostrils in an effort to stop further bleeding.

Dean nodded at Sam with his trademark cocky grin. "Hey Sammy," he greeted nasally. "You never told me Ellen was into bondage." His gaze slid over to the older woman. "Not that I mind." He lifted his brows suggestively.

Sam was caught between laughing and sighing. "Yeah. That's him."

Dean smiled brilliantly at the room.

x—x-x—x

Were this a scene in a movie, all eight cylinders of the truck barreling down the highway would have been screaming. Mothers pushing full shopping carts and little old ladies crossing the street would have been making desperate jumps out of the way of a thousand pounds of screeching steal. Had this been a movie, the driver would have been swearing and cursing at every pedestrian he had to dodge as the film inched its way to a dramatic conclusion.

This isn't a scene in a movie.

Bobby's truck did barrel, but it was down a deserted country road and the engine didn't scream, screech or rumble. It grumbled and gasped and made clunking sounds that had soccer moms dragging their ride in to the nearest mechanic. Not that getting it to a mechanic would be any trouble. The nearest one was sitting behind the wheel and he wasn't going to bother to take the time to fix the vehicle. The damn thing just had to get him to Sam before the engine sputtered and died.

Bobby adjusted his grip on the wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead. He didn't see the No Exit sign for a side road or the notice warning of wandering deer in the area. Hell, if he _had_ been driving through a town he would have had all the pedestrians dodging, but he wouldn't have been aware enough of the grannies to swear at them even if their walkers dented his truck.

Bobby's world had become narrowed and focused. It was hard to believe that Sam had been missing for less than forty-eight hours. It felt like longer. Maybe it was longer. Time moved differently in hell. It always had. When Bobby had lost his wife every second had felt like infinity. He wasn't going to go through that again. He was going to find Sam, wrap him in bubble wrap and mail him to Timbuktu if that was what it took to keep the kid safe. He had to have a big enough box lying around _somewhere_.

Bobby was plotting out the logistics of keeping a body hydrated while shipping it to Africa when he spotted Bill's place. All thoughts of the postal system vanished as Bobby's body geared up into high alert. He knew that it should have been the other way, that the familiar sight of the bar standing out alone in a barren landscape should have brought some small measure of comfort, but he just couldn't relax. If there was one thing Bobby had learned since he had joined the hunt it was that letting your guard down got you killed. Bobby couldn't afford to be dead until after he made Sam safe.

Still Bobby decided to forgo stealth. Gravel spun under his tires as he pulled up to the entrance, the truck still rolling even as he darted out of the driver's seat and threw open the door.

"Where is he?" he demanded.

He knew his mistake the moment Ellen met his gaze. "What the hell do you think you're doing making all that racket? We just managed to convince Sam to lie down and then you barge in here are all fire up. If you wake that boy…" Ellen trailed off, leaving the rest of the threat to Bobby's imagination as she continued to clean glasses.

But it was the use of "we" that caught Bobby's attention. He knew that Bill was down in Texas doing a consult with Jefferson, so that left him out. Ash wasn't one to convince anyone of anything, so that left him out and Jo was too busy giving eyes to the stranger nursing a beer at the counter to have been of any help.

And the stranger at the counter looked mighty familiar.

"You!" Bobby shouted as he placed the face.

"Hey there." The kid gave a shit eating grin and a slight wave but Bobby could read the _Oh shit! _ in the lines of the guy's shoulders.

Ellen's hands continued to drag the rag across a glass. "You two know each other?"

"We met in Black Forest." The boy raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Ellen gave a bark of laughter, setting both the rag and the glass on the counter. "Well I'll be damned. No wonder he wants to shoot you." She chuckled and shook her head. "Singer, come meet Dean properly."

Bobby looked at the cocky bugger sitting on the stool. "Dean?"

The kid flashed another arrogant smile. "That's right."

"As in Winchester?"

The smile remained in place but Dean's shoulders rose to his ears. "That's right."

Bobby turned to Ellen, who shrugged. She hadn't known he was a Winchester but she didn't seem to have a problem with it. The kid must've had one hell of a story to get that kind of reaction from Ellen.

Bobby turned back to the boy. "Last time I saw your daddy I threatened to shoot him if we met again."

Dean let out a humorless laugh. "That's my Dad. John tends to have that effect on people." He took a long drink of beer.

"Yeah, he does." Bobby grinned despite himself. He was looking for John in the youth in front of him but instead of seeing an obsessive bastard with a bad attitude he was seeing a worn out kid with balls the size of boulders. Hell, if he hung around for Dean too long he might even end up liking the boy.

"Now that you two are done sniffing each other's asses can we get down to business?" Ellen huffed, clearly annoyed at the macho posturing being done in her bar. "In case y'all have forgotten Sam's in a bit of a spot."

Bobby nodded as he made his way to the bar, taking up a stool a few over from Dean. He accepted the whiskey Ellen poured him with a silent thanks and drained it in one go. She refilled his glass without him needing to ask.

After a deep breath Bobby was ready to hear what had happened to his son in the past few days.

So he thought.

x—x-x—x

Sam was drowning in the rich scent of blood. It was filling his nostrils, choking him and pulling him under. The scent screamed at his senses louder than that goddamn song. He wanted it to stop. He needed it to stop.

"Easy kiddo. I've got you."

And just like that the song was replaced by words of comfort. The scent of blood was washed away with the calming fragrance of engine grease. Strong arms wrapped themselves around his trembling body and cradled him while whispers of comfort continued to pour through the darkness.

"Bobby." Sam wrapped his hands deep into the fabric, pressing his face against the old man's chest. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I let my guard down. I didn't mean to, Bobby. I'm sorry. I screwed up. I'm-"

"Whoa son. It's okay. It wasn't your fault. I've got you." Calloused hands began to rub soothing circles along his back. "I've got you. I've got you." Bobby gently rocked Sam as he chanted a mantra that hadn't been needed for years.

It hadn't lost its effectiveness. It didn't take long for Sam's hands to loosen and his head fall as Bobby's voice guided him back to sleep.

Bobby sat for longer, taking comfort in every breath that the boy in his arms drew. No thoughts of revenge stirred his thoughts. There would be time for the likes of that later. But in this moment, for this time, all that existed was Sam, breathing in and out, in and out.

It was too perfect to last.


	8. Candy Coated Gambles

AN-Hey again. Thought I should give you guys a heads up. This will be the second last chapter posted until I start writing again. You've been warned. But if it makes you feel better I have gotten to the staring blankly and my comp stage of writing. So maybe something will wriggle soon. I know where I want to go. Just having problems getting there. So here's chap8. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for all the reviews, and thanks for all the favs and such. I love each and everyone one you guys for giving my story a little love. I hope this makes it worth it for you.

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Sam was going insane.

He had been at the Roadhouse for three days. Seventy-two hours of constant monitoring. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes of non-stop fussing. Two hundred fifty-nine thousand two hundred seconds of not being able to take a shit without someone trying to wipe his ass for him.

When he wasn't being mothered or confined to his bed for his 'own well-being' he was being given inane chores, the sole purpose of which was to keep him occupied. Ellen had made him do inventory for the bar twice, despite the fact that the place hadn't been open since Bobby called her.

Worse, believe it or not, were the hushed conversations. It's like they thought he didn't know they were formulating plans. He was concussed, not mentally impaired. Even then, severe brain damage wouldn't have prevented him from hearing the hushed whispers, the silence every time he walked into a room, wouldn't have stopped him from seeing the guilty looks.

What Sam didn't understand was why they were hiding it from him. Did they think he was a liability? That he wouldn't be able to handle it? The cuts and scrapes were almost healed, the concussion already gone. Sam had always been quick to mend and Bobby knew that. Physically he wouldn't be holding anyone back. So why didn't they want him involved? It was _his _life hanging in the balance here. There was no need to get anyone else involved. He should be on the road, researching and scheming.

He would be, too, if Dean hadn't decided to stick around. The man had already saved him from Ellen's inanity on three occasions, though the last time he had simply thrown Sam in a closet and waited for Ellen to walk by.

Dean was proving to be a godsend.

"Hey! McBroody! Whatcha brooding about?"

Most of the time.

"I'm not brooding, Dean."

"Sure you're not." Dean winked. "You're just sitting alone out here in the hot sun on a crate because it's the style these days."

Sam glared as Dean leaned up against the fuel tanks. "Screw you."

"Hey!" Dean lifted his hands. "I've offered. You're the one not taking me up on it."

"You are such a jerk." Sam could feel the heat of a blush creeping up his face even as he buried it in his hands.

"Bitch." Sam didn't need to look up to know Dean was smiling.

Silence hung between them, but it wasn't awkward. It felt comfortable and hung in the air like a promise of better things to come. For a moment Sam was able to forget everything and simply watch as clouds rolled by on a far away horizon. When he was a child he had thought that heaven was made of clouds and when they moved across the sky it was because angels were pushing them and when it rained it was because they were crying. He had once told a teacher that his mommy was crying to help make flowers grow. His teacher had told his father.

Sam hadn't spoken about his mother since.

"You're still brooding."

"Yeah." Sam chuckled ruefully. "I guess I am."

"Well, stop it. I don't want to catch your emo. You can share it with your college buddies." Sam's smile evaporated. He heard Dean's boots shift on the gravel. "What did I say?" he asked cautiously.

"It's nothing." Sam sighed heavily.

"Sammy…" Dean prodded. Sam sighed again. Once Dean started prodding he didn't seem capable of stopping.

It was easier to acquiesce now instead of surrendering later. "I'm not going," Sam confessed. The words didn't taste as dry in his mouth as he thought they would.

"What the hell do you mean 'not going'?" Dean's tone caused Sam to flinch.

So Sam resorted to the best defense he had. "I mean I've decided to go to Candyland instead." What the fuck did Dean think it meant?

"Dude, you can't just not go," Dean protested.

Sam scoffed. "I've got other problems to deal with right now, Dean. In case you've forgotten I have hunters trying to kill me. I'm fairly certain that that is going to have a detrimental impact on my studies."

"Nah." Dean moved to sit on the crate next to Sam. "You're a total geek. You can totally fight them off and pull passing grades." For once the smile dropped and Sam had to admit to himself, he was a bit sad to see it go even as Dean continued on somberly. "Bobby and Ellen are gonna figure this out, kid. Seriously," He responded to Sam's look of disbelief. "They've got Ash researching. That guy is something else. I thought he was just another Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie but he has some serious skills. Maybe I should see if I can woo him from Ellen. I'd never have to research a hunt again." Dean looked up at the sky wistfully.

"You hate research that much?" Sam asked, amused.

Dean snorted. "Why the hell do you think I'm still here? It's either this or finding myself other hunt."

Sam's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I thought you were sticking around for Jo." He gave a sly grin when he saw Dean grimace.

Jo seemed to fancy herself in love with Dean. Not that Sam could blame her. Dean was handsome. If Sam were gay, which he wasn't thank you very much! –he would have gone so far as to say that Dean was stunning. He wasn't at all like the usual clientele of the Roadhouse. Most hunters who swung by were either old, curmudgeonly, or deranged, if not all three. Dean didn't seem like he was headed for a psychotic break in the near future and he was nothing if not charming.

He also was clearly not interested.

Sam figured it was the reason that Ellen seemed to like him so much. Nothing got that woman riled up faster than Jo.

Dean's shudder brought Sam back to the present. "Man, she's like ten. There is no way I can go for a freaking ten year old."

"She's my age," Sam informed Dean.

"She looks ten," Dean stubbornly insisted. "Besides," Dean's face slid into a sly grin, "You're much prettier than she is." He winked before leaving back to the bar.

Sam watched the door that Dean had disappeared through for a very long time.

x—x-x—x

"Do you play?"

"Hmm?" Dean lifted a brow, noting how the deck glided in Jo's hands. Cards flew through the air in a stream of black and crimson before settling smoothly into her palm. "What?"

She grinned smugly. "Poker. Do you play?"

"Nah," Dean lied.

Jo sat down in the chair across from him, smiling in a manner that she no doubt thought was alluring. To Dean she just looked as though she was trying to pull something over on him. "Do you want me to teach you?"

Yup, she was definitely trying to pull something. It was actually fascinating to watch. It reminded Dean of the one time his dad had taken him camping as a kid. There had been this bumptious squirrel that had started snagging Dean's Cheetohs when it thought he wasn't looking. He had even managed to get the damn thing to crawl on his lap to snag the orange treat and the entire time the squirrel had acted like it was the clever one, never knowing that Dean had caught onto the game long ago.

"Nah. I don't gamble. It's against Sharia."

Jo's face folded into a perplexed cloud. "Excuse me?"

"Sharia." When Jo's expression didn't clear Dean elaborated. "I'm Muslim. We don't gamble." His delivery was deadpanned.

"You had bacon for breakfast!"

"I never said I was a good Muslim."

Jo opened her mouth to argue when Sam walked into the room. "Hey Jo? Ellen needs to talk to you."

"But Saaaam," she whined, tossing her blonde locks, "I'm busy."

"She's _your_ mother. You can go tell her that," Sam snapped.

Whoa. Dean felt his eyebrows reaching for his hairline. He watched as Jo and Sam glared, caught in a battle of wills that Dean didn't quite understand. He wasn't sure that Jo or Sam understood it either.

It was Jo who cracked first. "Fine!" she snarled. She tossed the cards at Sam's chest, scattering them across the floor. Jo gave them a slight kick before flouncing out of the room.

Sam just sighed, the fight leaving him as he bent down to pick up the playing cards.

Dean joined him with a grin. "Are you sure she's your age? I thought girls were supposed to grow up faster."

Sam just shrugged. "So what were you two doing when I got here?"

"Oh nothing. Jo was trying to start up a poker game." Dean smirked. "Since I've lost her company will you play with me?"

Sam's hand stilled over the card. He looked at Dean suspiciously. "I don't have anything to wager." Dean watched as the kid's other hand clutched almost desperately at the amulet around his neck.

"No worries. I have it covered." Dean reached into his pocket, pulling out a large bag of M&Ms. "We can even color code."

Sam grinned. "You're on."

x—x-x—x

"You're cheating."

"I'm not cheating, Dean."

"Oh yeah? Then explain how your pile is so much bigger than mine. You haven't won _that_ many hands."

"Dude! You keep eating your winnings!"

"Do n't." The sound of crunching candy shells masked the words.

"You're eating them right now!"

"'M n't."

"Will you idjits shut up?" Bobby pressed a calloused finger against his temple. He couldn't believe he'd let the boys talk him into playing a few hands. Not only had he been forced to endure their constant bickering but he had been losing badly to boot. Not that he liked M&Ms or anything but it was the principle of the thing.

Sam muttered an apology while Dean just flashed a chocolate grin. Bobby glared at the boy. Then down at his hand. Then back at Dean.

Bobby was sitting on diddley-squat. His high card was a fucking nine. He was going to lose another hand. If he didn't know Sam better he would be tempted to jump on Dean's bandwagon. There was no way the kid was dealing dirty though. He simply didn't have the skills. After all, Bobby had never taught him.

Just as he was about to lose what was left of his M&M stash, Ellen showed up like an angel of mercy.

"Sorry about the wait, boys. It was Bill on the phone." She flashed an apologetic smile.

"He's done with Jefferson?"

"Nah." Ellen's eyes sparkled under her dark brows. "Turns out Jefferson still likes you, though I'll be damned if I know why. He and Bill are heading to the cabin tomorrow."

"The cabin? The one in Oregon or the shack in Georgia?" Sam pulled the hand he had been playing closer to himself as his body went rigid. Bobby winced. He had an inkling that this was not going to go over smoothly.

"I'm going to Oregon. You're going to Georgia." The bending of the cards was the only sign that Sam had heard him. Bobby decided to press forward before the calm broke into a storm. "Me and the boys are gonna lure whoever is after you there. They'll come after us, thinking we're hiding you and we take 'em out."

"How do you know they'll even follow you?" Sam's voice was flat.

Dean leaned back in his chair, puffing his chest out like a damn bird. "That's where I come in. I just spread some story on how I bumped into the Singers and the old man decided to settle his grudge against my dad through me. You let it slip you were heading to Oregon while he was in the bathroom cleaning up and that's the last I saw of either of you."

Bobby watched as Sam began to work his jaw. He could see the merits of the plan. Dean leaking the information gave enough of a lead to ensure that whoever was after them came, but it didn't reveal enough to scream trap. The men who tried to kill Sam had done their research. They would be counting on Bobby going on the defensive, on trying to get Sam under the radar. Taking the boy to Oregon would be the quintessential Singer thing to do.

Those bastards wouldn't know what hit them.

"No Bobby." Sam didn't even shake his head and Bobby braced in his chair.

"I ain't taking you into danger, boy."

"Well I'm _in_ danger, Bobby!" Heat crept into Sam's tone as his volume increased. "In case you haven't noticed someone tried to _kill me._"

"So you'll what? Come with us so they can have another shot?"

"This is about me. I'll handle it!"

"Like hell you will!" Bobby roared, slamming a hand on the table.

"Dammit Bobby!" The cards went flying as Sam surged from his chair so he could pace. "They want me! Not you. _Me!_" The boy darted a hand through his hair. "You can't expect to ship me off to safety while you go and get yourself killed for something that isn't any of your business!"

The room drew a collective breath.

"You stupid idjit!" Bobby hissed through clenched teeth. "You idiot. You think that I'm gonna let you run head first into danger and just watch as you get killed? You dipstick!" Bobby's voice rose as his words came faster. "You're my son! If you get sick, it's my business. If you get hurt, it's my business. If a couple of fuckwits decide to try to kill you It's. My. Business." Bobby slumped in his chair. "Dammit Sam," he whispered. "You're _my _boy."

"Bobby…" Sam's broke tone matched the look on his face. He struggled for the words to explain, to make himself understood. "God, Bobby." Sam rubbed his face with a hand. "They said it was about what happened to Mom." The kid's voice broke on a word he hadn't used in over a dozen years.

In no time at all, Bobby had his boy in arms. Sam wasn't as small as he was the first time Bobby met the boy a decade ago, but he still fit perfectly. No matter what happened he would always fit perfectly. Bobby knew that Sam had trouble understanding that. It wasn't surprising, what with a dead mother, a man who had been supposed to protect him and instead had tried to do worse than kill him and a boogeyman around every corner. But Bobby didn't need Sam to understand in order to be able to shoot every ugly son of a bitch that came his way. That's what parents _did_.

Bobby grabbed the back of Sam's neck, squeezing firmly to emphasize his words. "Sam. It don't matter what it's about. They're coming after you and you don't deserve it. That's all that matters. Now I know you want to help and I want nothing more than to keep you close 'til this is over but I can't. I can't. I can't do this if I'm worried about you, boy. I need you safe so I don't get myself killed." It was a dirty tactic but Bobby hadn't kept him and his alive by playing fair. "Don't worry, Sam. I'll get this all sorted in time for school."

"Bobby…"

"As much as I _hate _to interrupt this Brady Bunch moment," Dean sounded real sorry about it all right. "But why don't you just send Sam with me?" He took Bobby not shooting him as permission to continue. "I mean, I'm calling everyone anyway. I'm sure that I can scrounge up a simple salt-and-burn while you and your buddies are playing Daniel Boone. Think about it." Dean tried to sell it with a smile. "It'll keep Sam mobile. He won't be in a place you're known to go _and_ he won't be alone. And no one in their right mind would think that a Singer and a Winchester would be hunting together."

"Got that right!" Bobby snorted. But Dean could tell he was thinking it over.

"It ain't a half bad plan, Singer." Ellen added her two cents and Dean smiled graciously

Bobby looked at his charge and Dean knew he had him. There was only one person left to persuade. "Sam?"

Dean watched as the kid mulled it over, weighing his options. He could either drive to some godforsaken shack in Georgia, alone, and eat canned beans while he waited for Bobby to call or he could hang out with Dean, who was awesome.

Dean silently cheered when Sam squared his shoulders as he reached the same conclusions.

The kid shook his head ruefully. "What's the worst that could happen?"


	9. True Love

An-This is the last daily update. I've got some stuff to figure out before I can pump out more+ real life is looming somewhere. Thanks for all the support, vocal and other (though the vocal people get review responses XD ) I hope you enjoy this chapter. I know I did.

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Metallica. Metallica was the worst that could happen. Hour upon unending hour of grizzly guitar chords and angry voices growling out chewed lyrics.

Sam had asked once, just once, if they could change to something else. Dean had responded to Sam's query as though he had actually suggested that they strip down, rub each other down in carrot puree and then run through a petting zoo full of bunnies. Dean had pulled over the Impala while he calmly explained, as though taking to a moronic child, The Rule.

Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.

So Sam shut his mouth hard enough to grind his teeth and mentally replayed the image of wrenching the cassette out of the player, pulling the tape out of it and using the dark film to strangle the driver to near death. It had to be to near death, Sam reasoned, because there would be little satisfaction in shoving the carcass of the cassette into a dead man's mouth.

And boy, did Dean have a mouth. His lips were full and perfect and seemed as though God himself had crafted them to fit Dean's charming smile. The dusky pink made them seem so soft and the way they seemed to caress words when he spoke made Sam wonder what it would feel like to have those lips caress-

"You okay there, Sammy?"

"Wha?" Sam replied even as he silently cursed himself, having heard Dean's question perfectly. He had just been too distracted to formulate an answer.

"I asked if you were all right. You look a little out of it."

"I'm fine," Sam mumbled. He was _not_ flushed!

"You sure?" Dean didn't sound like he believed it for a second. Sam was fairly certain if Dean hadn't been driving he would have checked Sam's temperature.

Oh God. The last thing Sam needed was Dean touching him. This was not happening. "I told you, I'm fine." No. He wasn't fine. Why the hell had he been thinking of Dean's lips? What the hell was wrong with him?

Sam bit back a snort. He had a laundry list of things wrong with him. Having sick fantasies of the man who saved his life actually fit on it quite nicely. But Dean didn't need to know. Sam could hate himself enough for the both of then.

"Well I'm not." Dean's voice was as serious as Sam had ever heard it. "I needs to get me some pie."

"What?" Sam blinked at the driver. That was… random.

"I said I needs to gets me some pie. I loves me some pie." There wasn't even a hint of jest in Dean's face.

"Okay…" Sam agreed cautiously, waiting for some kind of trap to spring.

Instead Dean pulled into to Lou's Diner, which was actually run by a big burly black man named Earl. Now, Earl had inherited the restaurant, as well as all of his recipes, from his momma. Her name, God keep her soul, had been Gretchen. She had worked at the restaurant for her daddy, a shy man by the name of George, before he had died in from pneumonia. George had been the one to buy the land and set up shop. He and a few of his friends had built the structure from the ground up so George could run the restaurant that his wife had always wanted. Despite what you may be thinking, her name wasn't Lou either.

After George died Gretchen, a woman whose only man was the toddler she bounced on her hip, did the best she could with her daddy's recipes. She practiced cutting and chopping and dicing and even went on to learn how to coddle and reduce and emulsify. Not that it did her any good.

Gretchen couldn't cook worth shit.

But man, could she make pie. Stories were told how the angels themselves descended on the occasional Thursday to get a slice of the weekly special. The restaurant, a place where you could expect to get your water hot, your coffee cold and your eggs chirping, survived off of Gretchen's pie.

Earl kept the place the exact same in honor of his momma.

If Dean had known that it was Earl making the pie that was currently melting in his mouth he would have offered to marry to man, legal or not. Hell, Dean would have been willing to research a spell to carry the man's offspring if it meant he could eat pie this good everyday.

"Can you stop that?" Sam hissed in panic.

Dean slowly pulled the fork out of his mouth, using his tongue to scrape off every ounce of peach filling before returning it to his plate. "St'p wh't?"

"For one, talking with your mouth full. You weren't raised in a barn." Dean grinned and Sam rolled his eyes. The kid seemed to do that a lot. "I assume you weren't raised in a barn."

Dean swallowed noisily. "Well Sammy, you know what they say about "assuming"-" The kid cut him off with an angry wave.

"Whatever." Oooh. Someone was pissy. Dean really shouldn't let it amuse him. Then again, Dean did a lot that he really shouldn't.

Sam snapped his fingers in Dean's face, drawing the man's attention. "Second. You need to stop moaning. I don't care what you do with your pie in private but there are children in here."

Dean raised his head for show, pretending to catalogue the other diners. He was already well aware of everyone who was inside. He had been since the moment he entered the place. He also had mapped out every possible exit in case of attack and had chosen a seating position that optimized surveillance while providing cover. He didn't need to look.

But he did, because if he didn't Sam would probably ask some jackass question to make Dean prove his stuff. Not that Dean wouldn't in the same position but he really wasn't in the mood to describe the trench coat wearing tax accountant and his band of merry misfits, or recall the orders of the old ladies talking about their quilting group.

Ducking his head back down after he had wasted enough time with his "check" he flashed Sam another cocky grin. "I don't see any children here." He leaned forward and gave Sam a conspiring whisper. "Unless you're referring to yourself."

The reaction couldn't have been better if Dean had scripted it. The kid sputtered as his face splashed scarlet. Sam tilted his head, trying to use his shaggy bangs to hide some of his embarrassment even as he searched for a witty retort. And he would find one. The kid was good with comebacks and in a fair fight he could hold his own in a reasonable argument.

Dean was neither fair nor reasonable.

He shoved another forkful of pie into his mouth, taking care to make a long, exaggerated moan. It increased in volume when Sam tried to shrink further into the booth. His mind was desperately seeking a way to escape from Dean and his sex pie noises but since the guy had the keys, cutting and running wasn't really a choice. So Sam fell back into hunting strategies. He couldn't escape from his opponent and slaying the thing wasn't an option. That left him with distractions.

"What's the case about?" Sam threw out. Hunting was the only part of Dean's life where the guy showed any sense of maturity. Relatively speaking.

Dean frowned at the younger man but took the bait, letting the fork clatter to the plate. "I already told you."

Sam snorted. "No. I asked and you cranked _Nothing Else Matters_. I don't think Longfellow is meant to be taken quite so literally." Sam sighed at Dean's blank look. "Henry Wadsworth Longfellow?" No recognition. " 'Music is the universal language of mankind'?" Still nothing. "American poet from the nineteenth century?"

"Ah." Dean smiled in acknowledgement. "You're geeking it up. Gotcha." Sam glared. It only made Dean smile brighter. "Alright, Professor Keating, ready for this?" He absently mindedly scooped some pie as he pulled out a receipt with notes on the back. "Suspected haunting in Fox Point, New Mexico. The victims were all last spotted in the local mall. Get this," Dean leaned forward and whispered conspiringly, "They were all found stuffed in their own trunks. The rest is the usual. No leads, no fingerprints, no witnesses, no suspects, and the security cams show nothing but static."

Sam frowned and tapped his fingers against his cup of coffee. "Cause of death?"

"Hasn't been released. Either cops are thinking serial killer or they don't actually know." Dean took another bite of pie as he scanned his hasty notes.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "So we're probably dealing with a spirit of some sort."

"Yeah."

"You sound disappointed."

"I was hoping for something cool."

Sam stared at Dean in disbelief. "Cool?"

"Yeah!" Dean smiled like a schoolboy. "Like a werewolf or something. Those things are the shit. I mean, tearing the heart out? Only stopped by silver? That shit is awesome!" He wrinkled his nose. "Spirits are kinda lame."

"I'll be sure to let this one know that it's boring you."

Dean responded to Sam's sarcasm with a serious nod. "I'd sure appreciate that. Do you know what else I'd appreciate?" Dean waggled his eyebrows. "More pie!"

x—x-x—x

His chocolate hand was a stark contrast to his white phone. He liked the way it looked, like a shadow across snow. That had to be the reason he kept purchasing his cellular in ivory. After all, it was hardly a practical color for people who didn't have the habit of coming home covered in blood. Plastic was a bitch to get stains out of.

The device in his hand squealed shrilly. He didn't bother to check the caller ID. He knew who it was.

"They've been spotted." He didn't bother with a greeting. The man on the other end didn't care for social niceties. He barely managed social at the best of times, and today was _not_ the best of times. "Singer is taking his and heading up to Oregon."

He listened to the low rumble thunder on the other end. "No. I don't think this was too easy."

A deep growl cut him off. He rolled his eyes, glad that the other man was a hundred miles away and couldn't see the gesture. It wasn't as satisfying as hanging up on the man mid-rant would be but it also wasn't going to get him shot the next time he met up with his ally.

His co-conspirator finished the diatribe soon enough. "Fine." He was going to humor the older man. "I'll send some people to Singer's place and that 'secret' cabin he keeps in Georgia. I've got feelers out in the rest of the country. If Singer is trying to pull a fast one, I'll catch him."

The man on the other end grunted and ended the call.

The dark skinned man glared at his phone before stuffing the device into his back pocket. He really should stick to working with people who knew that _he_ was the man in charge. It made life so much easier.

x—x-x—x

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Sam went rigid, as though by not moving he could somehow become invisible. "What?" he asked cautiously. Dean could see the gears grinding as Sam tried to work out what taboo he had engaged in.

Dean decided to help the fellow out. "That," he proclaimed loudly, "Is my bed. It's always my bed." Not that it actually was. Dean had always been forced to sleep on the bed farthest from the door. It was one of the few small ways that John was able to show his son he cared without treading into the ominous realm of chick flick moments and heartfelt discussions.

The tension seemed to rush out of Sam's body as the younger man rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Forgive me for not reading your mind. I'll make sure to work on my psychic prowess for the future." He returned to scribbling weird squigglies on the window frame. Dean presumed they were obscure protection sigils from some long dead culture designed to keep the spooks at bay.

Dean bit back a snort. It irritated him, the fact that hunters used tidbits from people that had been wiped out ages ago in order to try and protect themselves. Like Latin. It was a dead language. If you could exorcise demons with it then why the hell did people _stop using it_? Not that Dean was denying that the stuff worked. It did. The why wasn't something he was invested in discovering. As long as it worked he was happy. He just had this nagging thought that it shouldn't.

Dean shook his head, sending his worries on the metaphysics of the preternatural skittering back to the dark recesses of his mind and focused on more immediately problems. Namely, Sam's shit on his bed.

He lifted the duffle with a grunt of surprise before dropping it back on the bed. He gave the bag a hard stare.

"What?" Sam had finished his doodles and was watching Dean's consternation with concern.

Dean didn't look away from the bag. "This thing is light. What the hell do you have in there?"

Sam lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "Uh, clothes? Is that okay with you or would you rather have be walk around naked?"

It wasn't often that Dean was struck speechless, but the idea of Sam wandering around naked was potent enough to strip the comeback from his tongue. He settled for flashing Sam a little leer and mentally peeling Sam's layers.

Sam's reaction was a bucket of cold water. The kid's expressive face closed up tighter than a nun's thighs in a strip club as he wrapped an arm over his large chest. Hazel eyes became wary and calculating. Dean could practically see the scales as the kid weighed his words, sifting through them as though he was looking for a bear trap to spring and take his leg off.

Dean's fingers twitched.

When he flirted with people one of three things happened. They either flirted with him (usually), ignored him (occasionally), or they shut him down (it happened_ once_). Sam was the first person to look at Dean as though he had suggested they go shark diving after bathing in chicken blood. It was maddening, but it was a problem that Dean couldn't solve in the next five minute, unlike the mystery of the way too freaking light bag.

He gave the zipper a tug.

"What the hell?"

"Dude! Stay out of my stuff!" Sam moved from the window, his long legs carrying his lanky frame to Dean in a matter of seconds but it was still far too late.

Dean lifted the rainbow thong from the bag with a single finger. "Well _Samantha_," Dean drawled the name, "is there something you're not telling me?" He twirled the panties in his hand, watching how Sam's eyes tracked the undergarment. Dean wished he had seen this side of Sam before challenging the kid to a poker game. If he had maybe he would still have some M&Ms left.

Sam's face was blank. Perfectly blank. The expression made Dean want to take a marker and give the guy a monocle or something, the same way freshly fallen snow made Dean want to leave giant boot treads across the neighbor's yard. It was both impressive and eerie. Had Dean not seen Sam stalking towards him seconds ago, he would have sworn that the kid had simply been replaced by a very lifelike statue.

The illusion shattered when Sam snagged the bag from Dean as quick as a mongoose. He clamped the duffle close to his chest, as though he could strangle the thing to prevent it from betraying him again. He lifted his chin at Dean, daring him to say something, to say anything.

In hazel eyes Dean saw someone who might be just as broken as him.

"So what are we going to do about this?" The thong continued to dance around his fingers, jerking occasionally as soft material caught on his callused finger.

"I'll leave." Christ, Dean had drunk beer that had sat open in the sun all day that wasn't as flat as Sam's voice. His heart ached for the kid.

"And what? Make me come up with a counter all by myself?" Some of the stiffness in Sam's face shifted into a look that Dean knew he didn't understand. He also knew he didn't ever want to see that expression on Sam's face again. "Jo won't know what hit her." He sniffed disdainfully at the panties. "Man, that was weak, even for a ten year old. Besides," he offered with a wink, "I already knew you were a girl. The hair gave it away." His smile never wavered.

Sam didn't relax his grip but he did tilt his head down and gave Dean a smile so sweet it should only be given out on Halloween. It was there for only a moment, like the sun's corona during an eclipse, before it was once again swallowed by the shadows in Sam's eyes. "Uh, Dean? What do you mean by "counter"?

Dean laughed. "Come, young Padiwan. I have much to teach you."

Turns out that Dean didn't, actually. Once he explained the basics of Pranking 101 Sam caught on to the nuances like a duck to water. The kid was sharp and he had a potential devious streak that Dean was going to nurse to maturity. It didn't take long for the two of them to concoct several possible recourses against one Joanna Beth Harvelle.

When Dean settled into bed, the one closest to the door, he did so almost completely content. There was just one issue, pressing on his mind. "Sam? What if that was Ellen's thong?"

"Dude!"

"What? I think she'd look good in it."

Sam gave a half strangled cry of horror.

Dean fell asleep with a satisfied smile.

* * *

AN-for everyone going "Chapter title was misleading!" Guys? This is supernatural. Of course the chapter was gonna be about pie. Or the Impala, but I don't know anything about cars, so pie.


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